In The Passenger Seat
by Picklewinkle
Summary: Fictionista Workshop's Daily Witfits. To Bella, Masen is a study in mood swings. She has an hour a day to figure him out.
1. Canyon

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The remainder of the words, plot and lackluster formatting belong to me. Please do not repost the story without authorization.**  
**

**Word prompt: canyon**

**Plot Generator: Raising the stakes**

**Not beta'd.  
**

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When the musical tones of my alarm register, I swear under my breath, and slap at the snooze button. I hate waking up. It's not that I love sleeping or loathe the day. There's just something so peaceful about a dream state. Maybe it's the lack of meaning to the images in my head, or the shift in focus and interpretation of those images. I couldn't really say with any certainty. I only know I long for those surreal moments where I simply exist without consequences.

My consciousness surfaces as I doze, until I can no longer block out the long day of classes and host of errands that are ahead of me. Mondays are my least favourite day of the week; a Monday brimming with unfamiliar faces and situations is arguably the most beastly variety. I don't do well with meeting new people or making friends; I've never really fit in anywhere. Perhaps today will be the end of that feeling. It's the official go-live date for a new chapter of my life.

I shower and dress, attempting to look nice, and my reflection says I succeeded. My mother's voice is in my head casting doubts that I forsake. "Whatever," I whisper to the mirror. I've run out of time to change anyway.

The last thing I do before I lock my apartment is take a mental inventory of my belongings: backpack, iPod, phone, keys, wallet: everything I need to get through the next twelve hours. I take one last gulp of my coffee, and thrust myself into the world.

The mail carrier is in the foyer of my building. As I walk by, he gestures for me to stop and, with a leer, hands me several envelopes. It's difficult to remember he's well-intentioned when he's staring at my chest like it's breakfast.

I flip through the mail, once I get outside. Amidst the bills and flyers is a postcard from my father. The picture boasts the banded, vermilion walls of the Grand Canyon girdled by an unexpectedly Dartmouth-green Colorado River. Ironically, I'm waiting for a ride to that very institution. Dad's message is short and sweet. I'm happy to read that he and Sue are enjoying their honeymoon.

A horn beeps in the distance, one of many neighbourhood sounds that swirl around me. Across the street, a young boy adorns his cement driveway with colourful chalk doodles. He waves at me; we've seen each other a lot over the last two weeks. I grin and say "hi." He makes me feel light as a feather, and I'm grateful for the levity.

A silver Volvo pulls up in front of me. For some reason I'm surprised, even though it's the exact vehicle I've been expecting. It's not a car I would anticipate a twenty-something guy driving. Then again, I'm not from Hanover. Perhaps this sedan is the equivalent of a pick-up truck back home. Or maybe he borrowed his mom's car.

I found Masen through an online rideshare program at the college. Aside from matching drivers and passengers, the service checks for an up-to-date licence and insurance, and handles payments. You even have the option to run a Lexis-Nexis background check, which I did. It came back squeaky clean.

We've spoken on the phone a couple of times, and exchanged texts and emails. He seems nice enough. Today is the first time we'll meet face-to-face.

I blow out a breath and reach for the door handle. Here goes nothing.

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**A/N**: So I'm taking a stab at Witfit. I'm having trouble finding my writing mojo, and I figured this might help. At the very least, it's a good exercise for me. I do have a loose story idea that I'll be following. My goal is 30 days. It may continue on longer if I enjoy it. The chapters will be short: 500 to 1000 words.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I'll do my best to answer.

Please take a moment to leave a review. I'd love to hear from you, even if it's just to say you don't enjoy the format, convey something you'd like to see happen, or want to say hello.


	2. Report, Resort, Retort

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The remainder of the words, plot and lackluster formatting belong to me. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word prompts: report, resort, retort. **

**Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, use all three.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I slip into the passenger seat, eyes averted, and utter a greeting before I lose my nerve. "Hi, you must be Masen. I'm Bella Swan. Thanks for doing this. I'd never be able to get to school without you." While I speak, I stash my backpack on the floor between my feet, buckle my seatbelt, and fold my hands in my lap, all in an effort to avoid his gaze. I'm chicken, but I don't know why.

Even though I'm clearly ready to go, the car doesn't move.

I chance a sideways glance at him. Not only is he staring in my direction, it seems he's trying very hard not to laugh. He doesn't know me from Adam. He certainly has no idea how foolish his guffawing would make me feel. With a sudden clarity, I realize it matters what he thinks of me. Probably because I know no one in this town besides an ogling mailman and a six-year-old child, and neither well enough to call by name.

He clears his throat. "This is going to be kind of awkward if you can't look at me."

I do as he asks, and wish I hadn't the moment I see him. He's too hot for words. Not just cute or handsome. He's the kind of good-looking that you feel in your bones, the kind that ties your tongue and turns your brain to mush, until the only thing you can sense is the ache between your thighs.

"That's better," he says, smiling so widely that his dimples show—quite possibly the only thing that could make his extraordinary face more attractive.

I blurt an excuse for my behaviour, hoping he hasn't already decided I'm a total spaz. "I didn't want you to think you had to speak to me. This is a business transaction, right?"

"Are you saying you don't want to be friends?"

Despite the playful squint of his eyes, he sounds concerned. It occurs to me that I may have unintentionally insulted him with my assumption, so it's on me to set things right. Only I can't think of a single thing to say except an absurd joke. I go with it, mimicking his expression and tone as best I can, and let the words tumble from my lips.

"I'm not sure it would be prudent for us to be friends. You could be a vampire."

A warm chuckle fills the cabin of the car and fills me with relief.

"I swear I'm on the up-and-up," he says. "I believe I've been Lexis-Nexis-report verified." His waggish grin is contagious. He knows it, too.

"As have I, I'm sure." It's not much of a retort, but it's the wittiest thing I can come up with.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "It just shows safety is important to both of us. That's a good thing. Otherwise, we'd have to resort to creeping each other on Facebook."

"You wouldn't find a thing. My account is locked up tighter than Fort Knox." The reddening of his cheeks gives him away. "But you know that already, don't you?"

"Guilty, but I'm only admitting it in the interest of full disclosure. We'll be spending an hour or more together each day. I don't want you to think I'm a liar."

He's probably a lot of things, but dishonest isn't one of them.

"As long as you promise not to stalk me, we're good." He joins me as I giggle at my own joke.

In the space of two minutes, we've managed to remove every bit of awkwardness between us. That's a world record for me. The fact that I genuinely like him is an added bonus. Something tells me I'm going to enjoy his company a great deal.

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**A/N**: Just to reiterate: Daily updates. Short chapters of 500 to 1000 words. A goal of 30 chapters with a potential to extend based on how it goes.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. I appreciate the support very much.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Please feel free to ask questions if you have any. And leave a review if you're so inclined. I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	3. Solid

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word prompt: solid**

**Not beta'd.**

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"It's not stalking unless you're caught," he says. His face is the picture of impish delight. It could brighten even the darkest mood.

I manage to keep the smile off my face, but my tone is burbling silliness. "Well then, I feel like it's my duty to tell you that I sleep with a gun under my pillow."

He feigns alarm, and we both crack up. The fearless quality of his laugh compels me to see him in a new light. Beyond his pretty face, humour, and easy-going nature—all of which he has going for him—something else lurks underneath all that charm. An indomitable spirit so dazzling that I feel changed being in his presence. I deny the superstitious side of my personality most of the time, but his appearance in my life seems like a sign. It's as if he's there to shoulder some of my burden, because suddenly everything around me—in me—feels light and promising.

"Duly noted. Seriously though, I hope I didn't upset you by looking you up on Facebook. I was only doing my due diligence. In my eyes, it's no different than the background checks we both requested."

He's right; it isn't. In this age of information overload, creeping someone on social networking sites is commonplace.

"If my Internet was hooked up, I probably would have done the same."

"I had mine connected a couple of days after I moved in. Thank God I had my phone to use in-between. Is that what you're doing?"

"Nope, entirely cut off." I pull out my phone to show him. "No iPhone, no data; just this shitty little pay-as-you-go."

"You don't even have a monthly plan?" He has the decency to look contrite once his genuine shock fades.

"I can't be the only person you know without a cell phone plan." My financial situation isn't like the rest of Hanover, and it makes me feel inferior to admit it. Still, he was honest about searching for me online. I owe him the same respect. "The truth is the fees are more than I can really afford to spend."

He runs a hand through his hair, muttering, "Fuck," under his breath.

"It's no big deal. I'm certainly not poor. Saving my money for Dartmouth was more important than keeping up with the latest technology. Did you know the average cell phone bill in the U.S. is seventy-one dollars a month? That's what J.D. Power and Associates found anyway. That's nuts!"

"You know the average monthly cost of a cell phone off the top of your head?"

"You can Google. I can Google, too."

He chuckles and hands me his phone. "Here, I'll let you borrow my LTE; feel free to browse while we're driving. You just have to swear not to tell anyone we're friends. I can't have you ruining my rep."

I snort and roll my eyes, but he's kind of adorable when he's being chivalrous and razzing me at the same time.

"No need to thank me," he adds. "I can't really use it anyway. I have to have my foot surgically removed from my mouth."

"Hey, don't worry about the phone thing. My ego isn't that fragile. It takes a heck of a lot more than a few assumptions to offend me."

"Really?" he asks.

I doubt there is anything I can say to convince him, plus I'm pretty sure there's more going on in his mind that what's just transpired in the car.

"Truly."

"So we're solid?"

"Yeah, we're good."

His quiet reply is almost drowned out by the sound of the purring engine. "Cool."

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**A/N**: Thank you to everyone who is reviewing. I know the updates are small and the pace is slow, but I truly appreciate the support.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'd love to hear form you. Tell me what you think is going to happen. Just click the review button.


	4. Let The Games Begin

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Whittle**

**Dialogue Flex: "Let the games begin!" he said.**

* * *

"Let the games begin!" he says. Driving must be his thing. He's beaming like a seven-year-old in front of a birthday cake. It's totally goofy, but I like that he's not afraid to be himself with me. It takes the pressure off. I don't have worry about saying something stupid, because he's more likely to laugh with me than at me.

He shifts gears, and pulls away from the curb. It's no great feat to drive in Claremont, New Hampshire. The city is on the small side, like most in the area. It's certainly nothing compared to New York or LA, although it's very similar to my hometown.

"Are you from around here?" I ask.

"Born and raised in Claremont. You?"

"I'm from Washington State." I don't bother to mention the name of my city. No one's ever heard of Forks, unless they're in the timber industry, or perhaps a sport fisherman with a love of trout and salmon.

"You're a long way from home. Do you miss it?" He turns smoothly off my street and heads towards the Interstate.

"Not really. Washington is beautiful, but the constant rain can be monotonous. After a while you feel waterlogged." _Like you're drowning_, I think.

"How long have you been in Claremont?"

"Two weeks." With his iPhone in hand, I press the home button and slide my finger over the arrow to unlock it.

"What do you think of it so far?" he asks.

The screen illuminates. Before I can snoop around his apps, I notice the last song he was listening to. I'm kind of shocked because it's one of my favourites.

"I can't believe you know this song. It hooked me as soon as the piano began in the intro. I love it when a band uses piano in a song."

He glances at the screen and nods enthusiastically. "It's definitely an underused instrument in modern rock. I like how the build of the song washes over you almost immediately. It was such a simple technique to cycle through the melody using different keys, but it works brilliantly. Well that, and the strings."

"Oh my God, the strings! Exactly! But the emotion in the singer's voice adds just as much. It's like he's reaching into my chest and ripping out my heart."

"They found the perfect balance between the vocals and instrumentation during the mixing process. It threads you through the entire piece."

"Total eargasm," I say.

His eyes flash to mine, unprepared for my impromptu word choice. I half-expect a blush to flood his cheeks, but they stay conspicuously pale. The change comes when he speaks in a husky voice.

"Well, Ms. Swan, I bet you enjoy number five then."

I'm a shuffle kind of girl, so I attempt to remember the track listing order. He taps the steering wheel with his right hand, simulating the bass drum opening of the song he's referring to. It's nothing like the theatrical piece we've just discussed. It's bluesy, southern rock. Not only is it raw, it's unbelievably sexy. In it, the singer croons about surrendering to his animal instincts during sex because he doesn't have a heart to give.

The car suddenly feels ten degrees warmer.

"I bet we both do." There's no other reason for him to point it out to me, and I'm not about to deny it. If he can be cheeky, so can I.

He's half-chuckling when he says, "Oh, this is going to be fun."

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you to everyone who's supporting the story. Your reviews are much appreciated.

For anyone who's interested, the first song that I referred to in this chapter came up randomly on shuffle. It's by a band called The Cab, and is called _Lovesick Fool_. The second song, also by The Cab, and is called _Animal_. I inserted it intentionally, because it's sexy, and it worked to open the conversation. I'm not having luck with formatting tonight. If you add the Youtube address in front of the partial links below, you should be able to get to the songs.

watch?v=axzEX9DA6f4

watch?v=2FiagNMWcGQ

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love!


	5. Sport

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word prompt: Sport**

**A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I agree. If the past ten minutes are any indication, we're going to have a lot of fun together. We share the same sense of humour, and both give as we good as we get. Plus, it doesn't hurt that he's respectful with his quips. When you're the butt of a joke, it's a lot easier to be a good sport about it when you know someone isn't trying to make you feel like an idiot. Of course, I could be totally wrong about him, but I don't think I am.

"These things are fun and fun is good." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I make a split-second decision not to explain myself. Part of me is sure he'll know the origin of the passage, and I'm curious if I'm right.

"Did you just quote Dr. Seuss to me?"

_Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner._

"I did."

"Let me get this straight. You're a music lover with the chops to passionately discuss her opinions, you quote famous authors and random Internet facts in general conversation, and you're willing to laugh at my stupid jokes?"

I'm caught a little off guard by his description of me. I like seeing myself through his eyes, even if I've never thought of myself in that light before. And if I'm not that girl already, I want to become her.

"That sounds a bit like someone I know."

"Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?" he asks.

For a moment, I'm tongue-tied. I couldn't feel more obvious. Can he tell I find him attractive?

"Uh-oh, you figured me out." Unfortunately, my reply does nothing to camouflage my pink cheeks.

"Look at that blush." His voice is unexpectedly tender, as though he has a fondness for the rosiness. Drawing attention to my problem only worsens it. I'm sure he's used to female attention, so making a woman turn red can hardly be something new to him. Still, his smile gets bigger as my flush deepens.

"I think you're speeding." I do my best to sound casual, though I'm sure he knows I'm purposely changing the subject so I can step out of the spotlight.

"Backseat driver," he mutters, one side of his mouth turned up in amusement. His wide, dimpled smile is lovely, but this lopsided one is sexy in an entirely different way. This is the shape his mouth takes when he wants his way, and I bet he gets it every time.

"Passenger seat driver, if you please. Unless you'd like to chauffeur me, in which case, let me slip into the back." I don't have anything in my arsenal that can hold a candle to his smirk, so I don't even try, trapping my bottom lip between my teeth to keep myself from smiling.

"Oh… um, your… yeah, never mind." His eyes dart back to the road. He checks his mirrors and the odometer repeatedly, looking everywhere but at me.

"That's what I thought." I have no idea what I'm saying. I'm going on gut instincts that I don't even understand at this point. It's a total adrenaline rush to go toe-to-toe with him and win. I'm already wondering when I can chase the high again. Unfortunately, I'm not even sure how I won the battle, only that I want another glimpse of him when he's a tiny bit out of control. With a new appreciation, I see how innocently addiction can be born.

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you to everyone who's supporting the story. Your reviews are much appreciated.

From: _One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish_ (1960): "These things are fun and fun is good." ~Dr. Seuss

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Please take a second to review :)


	6. Placate

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Placate**

**Plot Generator – Binding Blurb – In 500 words or fewer, write a blurb or a short entry on **_**getting the job done**_.

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

The next few minutes are quiet, but not uncomfortably so. We both seem to be lost in our thoughts. I can't help wondering if I went too far with my teasing. Even though the chance that I've pissed him off is remote, I'd rather make sure I haven't. I want things to be amicable between us, and I'm not above trying to placate him to ensure they are.

"Do you cook?" I ask. "I'm pretty good in the kitchen."

"God, I haven't had a home-cooked meal in I don't know how long."

"It's settled then. At some point during the next couple of weeks, you can come over, and I'll make dinner for you."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," he says.

I'm a little taken aback. "Why not?"

He probably has a perfectly acceptable reason for turning me down. He could be a vegetarian, or suffering from blood sugar problems. It's also possible that I've misread him from the get-go. Maybe he's more cautious with new friendships than he comes off.

"My schedule can be all over the place."

I back-pedal, abashed by his vague explanation. "Of course; it was just an idea. No big deal."

"It's not that I don't want to, Bella. I just think it would be better if I didn't."

His cryptic answer makes me feel even worse. I offer him a bogus smile in place of a reply, not trusting myself to speak leniently and sound believable.

Boundaries have never been my strong suit, which is why I shouldn't have extended the invitation in the first place. Anyone else would have interpreted his signals correctly, but they went right over my head. He must sense that I'm interested in him, if that's what I am. I admit he's wildly attractive, but I certainly wasn't pursuing him in any romantic sense when I suggested he come over.

My father believes it's a good thing that my heart is so open, that I still embrace the world with childlike wonder. In moments like this, I think I'm too naïve for my own good. Then again, I wasn't expecting him to _actually_ fall in love with me. I was trying to be his friend.

And maybe I need to tell him that.

"Hey, if I overstepped my bounds or made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry. I'm going a little stir crazy at home by myself, and we seemed to be getting along pretty well. I thought we could be friends and maybe—"

"We are friends."

"Right… car buddies." If he doesn't want our connection to exist outside of his Volvo, that's fine, but I'd hardly call that friendship. It's disjointed—limiting—as though we're pretending.

"If you prefer that label." Irritation seeps from his tone. I want to laugh at how easily his mood swings, but I don't. It will only annoy him further, when I'm really just trying to understand him. Right now he seems like he has multiple personalities, or he's a straight up control freak.

The next few minutes of the drive are conspicuously silent.

* * *

**A/N**: A big thank you to everyone who's supporting the story. I can't say how much your reviews mean.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'm curious how you're all going to feel about this turn of events. Take a second and leave me your theories!


	7. Juicy

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Juicy**

**Dialogue Flex: "Why did you let me sleep so late," she asked.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

When the Dartmouth campus comes into view, Edward's bad mood and the limitations he's placed on our friendship are forgotten. It's all I can do to breathe and absorb my surroundings. The campus is magnificent, and finally being here is surreal. Six months have passed since I found out I'd be coming, but I don't think I l believed it was true until now, when I see the bricks, glass, and steel with my own eyes.

"I'm ashamed to say that I don't even know where to drop you off. It never occurred to me to ask what program you're in. Wow, nice job, Edward," he says.

"Who's Edward?"

"Sorry, that's my given name."

"You really do have multiple personalities." He smiles, and I laugh. It's such a relief to let go of the tension that's surrounded us since our disagreement. "Can I ask where 'Masen' comes from?"

"I'm named after my father, and people would confuse us. I hated being called 'Eddie,' so my mom started using my middle name instead. It just kind of stuck."

The car passes the Thayer School of Engineering. I can see a cluster of buildings further ahead, but there are too many to name. In time, I'll know them all, and the thought fills me with excitement. I'm so ready to be here, to begin living my dream.

"You can drop me at Sanborn Hall," I tell him.

"An English major, I should have figured." He smiles proudly, as if he's learned some big secret.

"Why should you have figured that out?"

"Well, your ability to quote fine literature, for one."

"You consider Dr. Seuss fine literature?"

"Don't you?"

"Well, there are important lessons to be learned in Dr Seuss's stories, even if they're expressed in silly rhymes, but I think the average person would consider names like Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen, Tolstoy, or Dostoevsky when they think of fine literature."

"Well, I'm not your average person."

"So I'm learning."

"Listen, about earlier—"

"Don't worry about it, Eddie."

He looks away, simultaneously rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and smiling that uneven grin that should be illegal. All three things together make him ridiculously irresistible. He's right; I am into him. And it's a little unnerving to realize that he figured it out before I did. It doesn't make sense that the attraction is so strong, that I'm incapable of hiding or controlling it.

"Don't call me Eddie, brat. And let me apologize."

"Absolutely not. You haven't done anything to apologize for. And just because I'm dying to hear the juicy details of your life doesn't mean you owe them to me." I wink. I'm not sure why. It felt right, so I went with it. "Besides, it really was just an idea. This," I say, motioning between us with my hand, "whatever this is, be it friendship, comity, or rapport, it will figure itself out."

"Jesus, woman! Will you just let me say sorry?"

"No can do. I'll take a rain check. You can save it for when you actually fuck up. Chances are we both will."

He pulls up in front of the Sanborn building. It looks a lot like all the others—a raw umber brick façade with white windows—but the breezeway makes it stand out. It calls to me in a familiar way, and for the first time in a long time, I'm certain I'm where I belong.

"I think you somehow know me better than everyone else at this school," he says. His quiet voice holds a hint of sadness.

* * *

**A/N**: The night slipped away from me tonight. I'll try to get the reviews replies done tomorrow. I hope you can forgive me my time mismanagement :)

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

And about the last line… I can't remember why I stopped writing there, but there was a reason. Maybe it was just to point you in the direction of the next scene, but it's not as ominous as it sounds. Just trust me :D

I had some wonderful theories shared about yesterdays turn of events. My lips are sealed.

Reviews are love.


	8. Charge, Barge, Large

_Disclaimer_: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word prompts: Charge, barge, large.**

**Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I want to ask him how I could know him better than his classmates of several years, but I doubt he'll open up to me. If he wanted me to know more, he would have offered an explanation. There's a significant chance that his murmured reflection wasn't even meant for my ears. Nevertheless, I heard it, and I'd like to take a stab at making him feel better. Forcing him to focus on what's getting him down isn't likely going to accomplish that. My first thought is to hug him, but considering he didn't want to come over for dinner, a hug is probably a really bad idea. With him, just patting his hand might be crossing the line. My faith is the only thing left to give

"It's true; we click, but I bet you can find other people you can talk to."

"I'm kind of a loner." He admits this reluctantly, as though he's not proud of this fact, and isn't capable of changing it if he chose to. It baffles me.

"Oh, I see now. You joined the rideshare program to force someone to talk to you."

"You really are a brat, you know?" His smile makes me feel victorious.

"But I'm your brat. And I'm going to be late if I don't get a move on. I'd hate to have to barge into the middle of my first lecture."

"I'm not done until 6:30. You're sure that's not too late for you?"

"If I have extra time, I'll just explore the campus. It's large enough to keep me distracted for hours."

"Ok. I'll pick you up right here, I guess." He looks undecided. Unfortunately, I don't have time ask what his deal is. I've got to find my classroom. At this point, I'll be lucky to locate it before the professor begins, seeing how my sense of direction is more or less nonexistent. I should have looked into hiring a student in the faculty to walk me around the first week or two. I have no idea if that sort of service even exists, or how much they'd charge, but it would have made my life easier. No matter, it's too late now. Truth be told, I'm kind of excited to find my way around. My life needs a little more adventure.

"Sounds good. Thanks again for the ride, and the Internet." I hand him his iPhone before I slip out of the car. Just as my feet hit the pavement, I feel his fingers curl gently around my wrist to stop me.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, looking over my shoulder at his anxious face.

"Just… be safe. I know this is a nice place with a lot of well-to-do people wandering around, but you still need to be careful."

"I promise to steer clear of auburn-haired upperclassmen with silver cars and killer smiles. They're all a little shifty."

"You think I'm the most dangerous thing out there?"

From my point of view? Absolutely. And I can't even protect myself from him because my heart is in control.

"We've already established you could be a vampire. Until I run into the werewolves and zombies, you're at the top of my list."

Instead of laughing, he looks even more intense, almost irascible. It makes me wonder what's going on in his head. A similar joke made him laugh a half hour ago.

"I'm serious."

"Stop worrying. I'm not that fragile, remember? I'll be fine."

"Then call it a protective instinct. I can't help it if you seem… breakable."

I pull myself free of his grip, rolling my eyes as I get out of the car. It's pointless to waste more time arguing with him when he's being a highhanded know-it-all. "Bye, Eddie. I'll see you at 6:30."

He grunts, annoyed with me. _The feeling is mutual, buddy_. He drives off as soon as the passenger door closes. He's halfway down North Main Street when I realize I didn't ask where I could find him, or what faculty he was in. Eventually the Volvo turns right and completely disappears from view. There's nothing at that end of the campus but the medical school.

Now I have another name to call him by.

* * *

**A/N**: Review replies are caught up. Thanks for your patience. The next review pushes me over 100, which is so amazing. Thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Please feel free to ask me questions, if you have any. I promise I don't bite. I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	9. Barter

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Barter**

**Audio-Visual Challenge—Musical Mastery: "Bugler's Dream And Olympic Fanfare Medley" by John Williams**

**Listen to the sample, then write whatever comes to you first. **

**Just add the standard YouTube address to the front of the partial link below if you'd like to hear the song. I can't figure how to post links properly anymore.  
**

watch?v=MCqUESCoB1w

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I descend the stairs in front of Sanborn Hall shortly after 6:00 PM. My first day at Dartmouth was a resounding success. I tracked down all of my professors, and figured out where my classrooms were without getting lost. I even met a nice girl named Angela who offered to be my study partner. Triumphant is how I'm feeling, so much so that the timpani and horns of Bugler's Dream, Leo Arnaud's Olympic theme, echo in my mind. I may not have a podium to stand on, or a medal to accept, but I'm on top of the world.

The tree at the edge of the sidewalk beckons me with its wide trunk and cool shade. I sit on the grass underneath it to wait for my ride. In my head, the music aggrandizes to include John Williams's Fanfare Medley part of the composition. I can see the conductor's swinging baton as he leads the full orchestra through the swells and diminutions of the song. Out of nowhere, the tune morphs into a strange mash-up with The Imperial March. For the life of me, I can't figure out why Darth Vader's theme would enter my thoughts. Aside from the commonality of the composer, the two pieces are a study in contrasts to me. One represents elation and victory, the anthem of a protagonist—the hero. The other is synonymous with evil and fear, the antagonist's descant—the villain. It isn't until Masen pulls up that I make the connection, comprehending that he's been in my awareness much more than I've realized.

I get to my feet and brush off my clothes, then make my way across the street. He's watching me, but not seeing me, too busy searching my surroundings for trouble, I suppose. The fact that he thinks I'm fragile irritates me. Even if I needed protection—which I don't—he isn't going to provide it. _Way to expend a huge amount of wasted energy there, doc._

He says "hello," when I get in. I return the greeting, and focus on getting my things squared away so we can go. Just like this morning, he waits for me to look at him before he lifts a finger to shift the car out of park. The expression on his face is enough to make my stomach do flip-flops, but it's his speckled, bluish-green eyes that really pull the rug out from under me. The intensity in his stare makes me feel transparent, as if he can see straight through me and pluck every thought from my head.

"So did you find any miscreants in your search of the area?" I ask, hoping my sarcasm will make him stop looking at me like that. It doesn't.

"I see you still haven't let go of your anger from earlier."

It's crappy to feel so ineffective. My taunt bounces off of him, as though it was never spoken; his strikes me in the chest with crippling force. He sees me as weak, yet treats me as if I'm misguided for being hurt by it.

I drop the subject. I'm not angry, nor do I wish to argue. There is a beautiful world outside my window that actually deserves my attention.

He starts the journey home without another word.

As the countryside rolls by, I think about the world in terms of light and dark, trying to figure out which category the man beside me falls into. Is he a good man who makes bad choices, or is he inherently bad, disguising his sinister side with good manners, expensive possessions, and mesmeric good looks? Both verdicts seem possible; it's a mystery which option is more likely. Either way, he's the reason my mind can't separate the uplifting refrain of the white knight from the dismantling melody of the evildoer.

Maybe he's both: the hero and the bad guy.

If he is, does he barter his light to protect his dark? Or does he brandish his dark to shield his light?

Some day, I hope to figure that out.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone for the reviews. I'll do my best to catch on them later or tomorrow, time permitting. Thanks in advance for your patience, and thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing.

This chapter is dedicated to _**Ivygirl702**_. Happy birthday, darling. It's fitting that this chapter is posted on your day, because you make me feel worthy of a medal. I love you.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Please leave a review.


	10. Flimsy

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word prompt: Flimsy**

**Plot generator—Phrase Catch: "If I could only"**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

Ten minutes into the ride, I feel something tap my shoulder. Although his eyes are on the road, his iPhone is extended towards me. It's a peace offering, at least I take it as such, and quietly thank him before powering it up.

The song on the screen is an instrumental from a movie score, but not one I'm familiar with.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I don't know this piece."

"Play it." He hands me the external audio cord, and changes the stereo's settings while I plug it in.

The music starts, and it's all around me, thanks to the car's impressive sound system. I close my eyes and let the orchestra sweep me away. By the end of the arrangement, I've grasped its unspoken message. He's sorry, even if he can't say the words, and he's still angry with himself about it. Some might say it's a flimsy excuse for an apology, but I disagree. I think it's kind of beautiful. Music is important to both of us, and it can often express the thoughts we have trouble voicing. The selection was not random. It was waiting for me when I started up his phone, proving that he thought about our disagreement while we were apart. It shows he's remorseful, and that's enough for me.

"That one counts as your rain check."

His whole face relaxes. "I figured as much."

"For the record, you're welcome to have your own opinions. The ones about me don't even have to be flattering. Just don't shove them down my throat."

"I can't promise I won't make the same mistake again," he tells me, "But I swear I'll try to do better."

He's staring again. His earnest, compelling gaze seizes me, and I can't look away. I don't understand what it means, or why he does it. Because he's driving, he can't hold me captive for more than few moments, and I try to recover once his eyes move back to the road. My heart is pounding; my palms are sweaty, and my brain will not engage.

He must find the quiet encompassing us uncomfortable. He only lets it go on for a couple of minutes before asking me to choose some music. I come across an older song that suits my mood. The darkness of the lyrics combines with the bass line in an infectious way to convey the singer's anger.

As I search for a second choice, I accidentally back out of his music folder and end up on the home screen. His background is a candid photo of him with his arms around a beautiful, blond woman. Her face is partially hidden beneath the icons, so I can't see her clearly, but their smiles are bright and happy. Suddenly, his reason for refusing to have dinner with me is clear. What isn't so obvious is his reason for not mentioning her. It also makes his intensity around me even more confounding.

To give myself time to think, I put on the first album I can find, and lay his phone on the centre console. Disappointment is natural, understandable even. The rest of what I'm feeling—the confusion, and the depth of emotion—is more than I can manage without losing control. Tears are the last thing I want to explain right now. I go back to looking out the window, willing myself to calm down.

Masen seems to have picked up on the change in me, and it's made him jittery. His hands fidget on the gearshift and steering wheel, drawing my attention to his manual downshift. I didn't realize his car wasn't automatic. In fact, I can't recall seeing him shift a single time earlier. I ask him about it, making a conscious effort to focus on something besides the fact that he's not single.

"Is this car magic?"

"Magic?" he asks.

"I don't remember you manually shifting at all this morning."

"This car has a manumatic transmission, which is a combination of automatic and manual. I only have to shift if I want to. And I don't have to use the gearshift. There's a paddle on the steering wheel that I can use."

That explains why I never noticed him doing it.

"What's the point of having both?"

"It's a common feature in high-end sports cars. It increases driver control."

"Oh."

We pull up in front of my building, and he cuts the engine. With a sheepish look, he adds, "I used to drive a Porsche. I got accustomed to being able to shift at will, and liked the control. It's one of the reasons I chose this model."

"I would have looked better in the Porsche," I say with a smile.

We part with a chuckle, and I wave as he drives off. My phone buzzes just after I open the apartment door. It's a text from Masen.

"Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one."

Auburn-haired upperclassmen with silver cars and killer smiles are definitely dangerous. Those who quote Dr. Seuss and are doctors themselves are the most dangerous of all.

* * *

"Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one." ~Dr. Seuss.

**A/N**: The instrumental from a movie score that I referred to was imaginary, the idea being that it would be similar to something Edward would have composed to express himself in Twilight. The second song I referred to _Harder to Breathe_ by Maroon 5.

Apologies to all who are waiting for review replies. I've been writing like mad trying to meet a deadline for the **Fandom4TwiFanG **compilation. I'm hoping to finish tonight but am still looking for a beta for the piece if anyone is interested.

Thanks to everyone who is supporting the story.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you'd like to leave a review.


	11. Train

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Train**

**A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

Masen is in the forefront of my thoughts all evening. There are moments where the letdown that he's coupled is so profound that I just want to give in and cry, but I never do. I'm not positive it's even him I'm upset about, more the notion of lost potential. Over the years, the number of guys I've been well and truly attracted to can be counted on one hand. I'm so sick of sparks; I want fire.

In reality, Blondie's existence changes nothing between Masen and me. We'll still be sharing rides and, since he isn't inclined to have our lives intersect in a more personal or intimate way, our amity can continue within the confines of his car. Admittedly, it's less than I'd like, but it's enough.

I am curious why he'd keep a woman like her to himself. Every other guy I know would be bragging. Of course, we're only just getting acquainted. Aside from a passing mention of his parents, I don't know much more about his personal life. Maybe he's just a private person.

I unwind with a soak in the tub before bed, and fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

**xxx**

Masen's car is waiting in front of my apartment building when I get outside the next morning. The little boy across the street rocks back and forth on his heels, watching me. I wave at him, and he smiles. Seeing his sweet face light up always makes my heart light.

Masen is smiling, too, and when I open the car door, I can't help but return it. As soon as I'm seated, he thrusts a large cup towards me.

"What's this?"

"A vanilla latte."

I give him a curious look. "You couldn't possibly know." We hadn't discussed a preference for coffee yesterday, let alone my favourite variety.

"I can read your mind," he says with a chuckle. His expression hints that he's hiding something. I don't press. I'm determined to keep the mood breezy today.

"You know, I can deal with the whole vampire thing, but telepathy is a deal-breaker."

He snorts. "Why?"

"Lots of reasons. I guarantee there are things in my head you don't want to know." _Things that involve you and me in positions that would make you blush six ways to Sunday_, I think.

He slows the car as we approach the lowered boom gate of a railroad crossing. The speed of the passing train cars makes them blur into each other.

"See, that's where you're wrong. I always want to know what you're thinking. You're just afraid I'll figure out how insane your thoughts are."

"You just proved you're a fraud, Eddie." He glares at me when he hears his nickname. "If you could read my mind, you wouldn't need to figure out whether my thoughts are crazy. You'd already know they are."

"It's kind of annoying how observant you are." He shakes his head playfully, pretending to be irritated before casting his eyes on me. So much for light and easy. One good stare from him and low-key flies out the window. He puts the final nail in the coffin of laid-back when he says, "You smell like vanilla. It wasn't a huge jump to guess you like the flavour."

* * *

**A/N**: I fell behind on _In The Passenger Seat_ this week so I could meet the story deadline for the **Fandom4TwiFanG **project. There's still time to donate if you'd like to receive the compilation. Over 80 authors have donated stories, including outtakes from some of the most popular stories in the fandom. You can find the details at: fandom4twifang dot blogspot dot ca

I'm hoping to catch up a little this weekend. Sorry for the delay.

Thanks to all the readers and reviewers.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love.


	12. Collide

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Collide**

**Dialogue Flex: "We need to leave right now," he said.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

He may not be the first person to notice the scent of my body wash, but he's the only one to have the guts to mention it. I'm flattered. The implication that he likes the way I smell makes me even more delighted. Of course, crafting an appropriate deflection is nearly impossible, because all I want to do is ask him for confirmation.

He adds, "And if you value the comfortable leather seat under your ass, you'll stop calling me _Eddie_."

The opening he gives me is too easy to ignore. "Have I hit a nerve, Ed?"

"Ha ha ha. We've got a comedienne on our hands."

"Perhaps you'd prefer Eduardo?"

"Masen will be just fine, thank you; anything but Eddie."

"Or Ed," I say with a grin.

He rolls his eyes. "Or Ed."

"Or Eduardo."

"Damn, you know how to be a pain in the ass! Your siblings have taught you well."

I laugh; he's partly right. "Actually, I'm an only child. You just bring it out in me."

"Lucky me." The thick sarcasm in his voice is balanced by the coltish sideways glance he shoots at me.

"I think so. And everyone calls you Masen. I deserve my own special nickname for you. How about M-schizzle?"

He grunts and shakes his head. "Not if you want me to answer."

"I'm sure I'm not the first person to tell you that you're a party pooper."

His right hand is resting on the gearshift. I've noticed he leaves it there when we're needling one another. I think it means he's enjoying himself, and it reassures me that I haven't taken things too far.

"If that's similar to a shithead, then no, you're not the first." Cue my favourite smile.

"Are you saying I can call you shithead?" I turn my head to look at him. He's all dimples one moment. The next, he's gone pale. I see every emotion unfold on his features—fear, then panic, followed by determination. Before I understand what's happening, his hand flies off the gearshift and reaches across my chest to brace me against the seat.

"Hold on," he says calmly.

For some reason, I'm not afraid, not even as I look out the windshield and see two cars collide up ahead. Not even when we're barrelling towards the wreckage, closing the distance much too quickly to be comfortable. I trust Masen will keep us safe.

The brakes squeal. He swerves but never loses control, and brings the car to a stop well clear of the accident.

"Are you okay?" He can see I am, but it's kind of him to ask.

"I'm fine." My voice sounds high, but it's not shock; it's awe. I'm marvelling at Masen's levelheadedness and quick reaction time. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. I'm just gonna…" He motions towards the collision; he can't seem to find the words he needs, and I don't press him to elaborate. He hands me his phone and asks me to dial 9-1-1.

We're there an hour. I drink my latte and watch things unfold. Two ambulances come and go, one empty, the other with one of the drivers. It's just precautionary. He has several cuts on his face from the driver's side airbag, but there's some doubt as to whether he hit his head on the steering wheel. He needs to be assessed at a hospital to rule out internal injuries. Or so I learn as I listen to Masen speak to the paramedic. My guess about his professional calling was spot on.

He apologizes profusely when he gets back in the car. When I try to ask him for more details about what happened, he interrupts me.

"Buckle up. We need to leave right now," he says. "I've already made you late, but if we hurry, you can still catch your second class."

I want to remind him that none of this was his fault, that keeping me safe and helping out the crash victims easily offsets a missed class. But 'm pretty sure he knows this. Instead, I say, "Okay," and do as he asks.

I give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before I speak again.

"So… you're a doctor."

* * *

**A/N**: There's still time to donate to receive the compilation honouring **TwiFanG**. Over 80 authors have donated stories, me included. You can find the details at: fandom4twifang dot blogspot dot ca

My next update won't be until Wednesday.

Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Leave me some love by way of a review.


	13. Foreman

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Foreman**

**Plot Generator—Idea Completion: Dressing for success.**

**An idea or concept is presented. Follow where it leads you.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

**Last time, on _In The Passenger Seat_… {**_Just a little review, in case you've forgotten where we left off, and since I took an impromptu vacation break_** :)}**

"Buckle up. We need to leave right now," he says. "I've already made you late, but if we hurry, you can still catch your second class."

I want to remind him that none of this was his fault, that keeping me safe and helping out the crash victims easily offsets a missed class. But 'm pretty sure he knows this. Instead, I say, "Okay," and do as he asks.

I give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before I speak again.

"So… you're a doctor."

* * *

"What gives you that idea?" he asks, as though I hadn't just witnessed him being all professional and, well, doctor-y. He'd see that I'm giving him stink eye if he'd actually look at me. Apparently, it isn't just this discussion he's trying to avoid.

"Are we really going to play this game?"

"We're playing a game?" His innocence is perfectly delivered. He's not just playing, he's playing to win.

"Touché, Doc. What gives me the idea you're a medical practitioner? Let's see… How about using the terms _intracranial_, _cerebral contusions_, and my favourite, _subdural haematoma_ in general conversation?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You heard that?"

"Maybe you're not the only one who can read minds."

"You know what they say about eavesdroppers…" He's baiting me on purpose, a subtle attempt to change the subject.

"They have exceptionally good hearing?"

"Why don't you find something on the radio, or plug in my phone if you'd like. We need some tunes." The music is just another diversion.

He adjusts the settings on the stereo. I watch him carefully so I can do it myself next time, then I quickly press play, content to let whatever Masen was last listening to suffice. As soon as the notes come through the speakers, I bring the conversation back around to where we left off. "Are we really not going to talk about this?"

"Did you say something?" He's grinning at me. At least he's being adorable and evasive. It's better than just evasive.

"Well you certainly don't look like a doctor," I say sarcastically. "Physicians don't have good taste in music. They don't own smart phones or drive cool sports sedans or—"

"You think my car's cool?"

"Well, it's no Porsche. Come to think of it, doctors drive Porsches. Plus, they wear expensive suits and silk ties, not jeans and a Coldplay t-shirt. Maybe you wanted to be a doctor, but changed your mind because you didn't want to dress for success or drive a fuck awesome sports car." I realize my quip hits a little too close to home when he grimaces, and I instantly regret what I've said.

The iPod chooses this moment to shuffle to a metalcore song. The screaming vocals are raspy and offensive, clawing their way out of the speakers like a brutal growl. Try as I might, I've never been able to get into of this genre. Its appeal mystifies me. I do what I always do when I hear it: giggle.

Masen scowls at me. Instead of heeding his warning, it makes me laugh harder. He tries to remain disapproving and oppose my high-pitched cackling by keeping a straight face, but I can see signs of surrender at the corners of his mouth.

It takes thirty seconds before I'm beyond control, so consumed by the ridiculousness of the singer's caterwauling and my own behaviour that I can't get a hold of myself. My laugh is little more than shaking-shouldered, watery-eyed silence and gasping breaths. Either this level of goofiness is impossible to resist, or he stops trying, and I'm so relieved to hear him chortling along with me. At this point, I don't even care if it's at my expense. I'm just glad we're okay.

A ringtone plays over the sound system, causing the terrible music to fade into the background. Masen lays a finger over his lips and shushes me. I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle the noises I'm making, hoping I don't screw up his call and make him angry. He doesn't look mad. In fact, he's still chuckling when he taps a button on the stereo and says, "Hey, Foreman."

"Masen! Dude! Where the fuck are you, man? We're supposed to present our case in fifteen minutes."

"Sorry. I was a witness to an accident on I-91. I'm on way. Can you stall?"

"Any injuries?" the guy asks.

Masen rolls his eyes. "One: a potential TBI or SDH."

"No fucking way! Seriously?"

"Foreman, can you stall?" Masen asks again, his tone impatient.

"I'll try. Get your ass here ASAP. Ciao."

He ends the call and glances at me. "Sorry, I know it was rude to take that in front of you, and I normally would have ignored it. I just thought it was a good idea to let my group know I was on my way."

"That's okay. At least I know what you are now."

His expression is blank. "What's that?"

"A student."

* * *

**A/N**: TBI – Traumatic Brain Injury

SDH – Subdural Haemorrhage

Review replies are caught up on. Thanks for your patience. I appreciate every word of support you leave. If I missed anyone, let me know.

You can find me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle


	14. Deterrent, Recurrent, Abhorrent

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Deterrent, recurrent, abhorrent.**

**Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I realize just as Masen's about to deliver me that I haven't thanked him for the coffee he bought me. We've both been pretty quiet since I dropped the subject of his career path. It was a conscious choice made to keep the peace, but not one I'm content with. His secrecy leaves me feeling uneasy. At times he's very upfront with personal details—like his name, his Porsche, or being a loner—but he avoids sharing just as often. I hate not knowing which topics are taboos, even if it is part of getting to know someone. The recurrent fear of putting my foot in my mouth shouldn't be a deterrent to getting to know him, but it is.

"Thanks for the latte. It was such a thoughtful thing to do. How much do I—"

"Don't even… I didn't buy it expecting to be paid back. It was my treat."

He looks miffed, and I'm not certain whether he's joking. I don't want to feel like I owe him, nor do I want him to feel like he has to buy me a coffee just because he wants one himself.

"But I—"

"One more word and you're going to insult me."

He's definitely serious. I'll have to find some other way to balance things out between us. I have no desire to offend him, but I need to show my appreciation. Because I'm wary, it comes out sounding like a question. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." With a flash of dimples and a shift of his lips, all is well. Better than well, in fact. There's something in this smile that's so endearing. It's dynamic, as though he's flustered or embarrassed and can't decide how big a grin or what sort is appropriate.

"Next time it's my turn. But none of this Dunkin Donuts crap. Don't you guys have Starbucks out here?"

"Oh yeah, you're a _west-coast_ coffee maven," he says with fake repugnance. "No Starbucks for sixty or seventy miles in opposite directions."

"How abhorrent!" My attempt at imitating his haughty tone makes him chuckle. "Seriously? Nothing closer than that? Tell me again why I moved out here."

"The scintillating conversation."

"Is that what you call it?"

"If you want a ride home, it is."

"Again with the threats. You'd better be careful or I'll find a new driver. A girl can only take so much intimidation before she buckles under the pressure."

"I can't imagine you buckling under any circumstance." His eyes meet mine for just a moment, transferring their intensity like a lightning bolt. I swear he does it on purpose, just to have the upper hand.

"You'll see," I say, and it's as much a promise as I've ever made. Pressure comes in many forms. I may be tough, but I'm not shatterproof. "See you later."

**xxx**

I'm hunkered down at a quiet table in the library. My required reading list is extensive, and since I'm not the fastest reader, I have to use every spare moment to stay on top of it. Masen won't be done for another hour at least, so I should have time to finish this book's first act and prepare notes for tomorrow's study date with Angela.

"If you didn't want to talk to me, you just had to say so, rather than hide in the one place I'm not allowed to speak." He whispers directly into my ear, and I have to close my eyes just to focus on his words. "You're way too easy to sneak up on," he adds.

"What are you doing here?"

"I finished early." He steps away from me and flops down into the chair on the other side of the table. The enormous windows behind me illuminate his face with a beautiful, late afternoon glow. I want to crawl into the warmth his green eyes exude as they stare back at me.

"You should have sent me a text. I would have met you out front."

"I know. I wanted to carry your books."

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks everyone for reading. The story is approaching 200 reviews, which is so amazing. Thank you.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

*waits patiently for your thoughts* ;)


	15. Hoop

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Hoop.**

**Audio-Visual Challenge—Imagined Image**

**View the image, and write what comes to you.**

**fictionista workshop dot com / wp-content / uploads / 2012 / 08 / lighthousestorm dot jpg**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

A tiny smile plays on his lips, as if he hasn't just said the most unexpected and contrary thing. I'm too shocked to do anything but blink.

"Are you ready to go?" he asks.

I nod, my dry throat incapable of speech, and pack up my things. Once my backpack is zipped, he reaches for it and slings it over his shoulder. All he has to do now is pick up my hand and I'll become completely catatonic.

Who is this guy, and where is Masen?

"After you," he says, offering me the right of way.

My first few steps are cautious as I try to shake off the uncertainty. He falls in beside me, altogether unaware of my struggle. The silence of the library is like a shield. I wouldn't know what to say even if talking were allowed.

We get to the foyer, and it's brimming with students. He steers me through the crowd and towards the doors by placing his hand on my lower back. As soon as I feel his touch, it's as though a tidal wave has crashed over me. I can't get my bearings. My heart thumps erratically, echoing hostilely in my ears. Even breathing feels like a chore. He has his own rip current, and it drags me further under each second that we're connected.

He guides me in the direction of his car, the pressure of his palm anchoring us together even though we've exited the library. The fresh air does nothing to clear my dazed brain. I'm following his lead, but I feel lost.

He's opening the passenger door for me, and closing it behind me once I get in. It's such a gentlemanly thing to do. I wish I understood why he bothered. Scratch that. I wish I understood any of what he's doing, because it's all so at odds with the man who thinks having dinner with me is something he shouldn't do. This seems like so much more than a few laughs over a plate of spaghetti and a bottle of wine.

He's the first to break the silence.

"Long day?"

"Endless." And it's far from over.

"Want to talk about it?" His concerned expression makes me feel guilty.

I do want to talk about it, but only if he's going to be honest with me. I'm not sure my heart can take another arcane excuse or humourous redirection today.

"No, thanks. I'm just tired."

"You're sure? You seem kind of… off."

Off is exactly what I am. He doesn't realize that his thoughtfulness, his touch, and his concern are confusing. I'm not looking for a father figure or big brother to take care of me. Besides, a father doesn't look his daughter the way Masen looks at me, and a brother would seemingly be happy to spend time with his sister, as would a friend. So what does he want from me?

"Back home, we had this awesome little coffee shop that made the most delicious baked goods. If I were there, I'd buy two cannoli and a vanilla caramel latte right now. The whipped ricotta and bits of chocolate combined with the sweet coffee would be all the pick-me-up I'd need."

"Sounds delicious. If we're talking indulgent baked goods, I'm going with my grandmother's scones. Especially if they're still warm."

"Why don't you pick something for us to listen to?" I'm hoping his choice will give me some insight about what's going on in his head.

It's another instrumental. I turn up the volume until the music is loud enough to block out everything, even the lingering sensation of his fingertips low on my spine. The piece begins sadly, a deep melancholy underlying every note. It builds into something hopeful and uplifting, filling me with the belief that I could accomplish anything. The end is less certain, undecided and almost flighty, as though the composer couldn't bear to finish, or the conductor stopped directing his musicians. The drive is all but over as the last tones fade.

I still don't know what's going on in his head, but I know now that I've just heard his theme song.

"Thanks for the ride," I say, grabbing my bag and turning toward him. I need our goodbye to be clean and quick.

"You're sure you're okay?"

I nod.

"Because you could tell me, you know that, don't you?"

I nod again, keeping it simple.

"You've got a… do you mind?" He reaches out. His fingers graze my cheek before they thread into my hair, tugging gently.

Not simple.

"Sorry. Your hair was caught in the hoop of your earring. I didn't want it to pull."

"Thanks," I whisper.

I avoid looking at his face, knowing I'll have to endure his intensity. Being close to him is hard enough. My eyes slip closed.

"You'll miss the best things if you keep your eyes shut."

I laugh and, perhaps stupidly, meet his gaze.

He smiles. "What? You're not the only one who can quote Dr. Seuss."

"No, I'm not."

"Go finish your reading, Bella. I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

"You'll miss the best things if you keep your eyes shut." ~ Dr. Seuss, _I Can Read With My Eyes Shut!_

**A/N**: Thanks everyone for reading.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love.


	16. Schedule

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Schedule**

**Dialogue Flex: "What is that noise?" she asked.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it as scene, a thought, or something else.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

That night, I make scones for Masen. They won't taste like his grandmother's, but they'll equalize the debt of the latte he bought me.

Despite my justifications that 'friends bake for friends,' and 'taking care of people is innate for me,' I take an obscene amount of pleasure in doing something for him.

I cut and lay out the dough on a cookie sheet, then put the whole thing in the fridge to chill overnight.

As I finish cleaning the kitchen, I think of the nameless blonde girl on his iPhone, and wonder if she cooks for him, too. Tomorrow, come hell or high water, I have to ask.

**xxx**

I bake the scones while I get ready the next morning, and pack them up while they're still warm. I'm so excited to bring them to Masen that I almost forget to lock my front door.

As soon as he pulls up, I slip into the car and pass the basket to him.

"What's this?"

"A surprise."

He pulls the treat to his nose and inhales deeply before peeling the towel back to look inside. His eyes widen instantly.

"Scones?" The surprise in his voice is so genuine. It makes me think it's been a long time since someone's done something nice for him.

"To pay you back for the coffee."

"Aw, Bella, you didn't have to do that. It was a gift."

"Try one. They're still warm."

Seeing him dig in is every bit as satisfying as I imagined it would be. When he raves about them, I'm on cloud nine.

"My grandmother would kill me if she heard me say this, but these are every bit as good as hers, maybe better."

"I tweaked the recipe just for you. I had to use what I had in the house." It's not exactly true. I used ingredients that reminded me of him—dried cranberries for his sour side, and white chocolate chips for his sweet side—so the finished product was a dedication of sorts.

"I'm honoured," he says, shoving the last of the triangle into his mouth. He chews for a moment, and adds, "Holy fuck, these are good!"

The face he makes as he chews is priceless. I feel a little obscene watching him, imagining the things I could do to his body that would bring about a similar face

He helps himself to another and, with it sticking out of his mouth, he grins while he pulls into traffic.

"So what did you do last night?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"I crashed, actually; really early, like ten o'clock or so. I couldn't keep my eyes opened."

"No hot date? No sexting marathon?"

He snorts. "I think I'd remember that."

"What do you do with your free time then?" I look down at my lap and nervously pick at the lint on my jeans, well-aware that I'm dangerously close to prying.

"I study and sleep. That pretty much covers the whole twenty-four hours, aside from school."

"Every day?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, I stay in because I'm new to town, and carless. But you're from around here. You have… ties to the community, and you have a vehicle to get you to where you need to go. You must have a few friends, even if they're from years ago and you don't see them all that often."

"I don't have time for a social life. I can count the important people in my life on one hand, maybe two, and even them I don't see with any regularity. My schedule just doesn't allow for it."

I waver at the last second, stuck between pushing him too far and not really wanting confirmation that his heart belongs to someone else.

"Don't you ever want someone to take care of you, someone to watch over?"

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks everyone for reading.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Leave a review. I'd love to hear what you think.


	17. Sedate

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Sedate**

**A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

The set of his brow narrows, his whole expression becoming pinched. I may not understand the reasons behind it, but I know I've managed to find another touchy subject.

"Most days, I can barely take care of myself," he says. His matter-of-fact tone isn't very persuasive, an attempt to convince himself perhaps, because it doesn't work on me.

"You look like you're doing okay to me."

He shakes his head, almost as though he's refusing to accept my words.

"I need to stay focused. Anything else would be irresponsible."

I don't like that he's being so hard on himself. I'm all for being driven, but he sounds more like my father than a twenty-something guy in college.

"Everybody needs a little fun in their life, and someone to share it with."

"That's what I have you for," he says, flashing me a grin. "I'm penciled in for thirty minutes of laughs twice a day."

I might have believed him if his smile wasn't so affected. His diplomacy in this situation has more to do with bringing the conversation to a close than it does being complimentary. At least I think it does.

"The entirety of your comic relief resting on my shoulders is a lot of pressure to be funny."

"Nah, no pressure. Just being around you just makes me feel less weighted down."

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out; his honesty is stupefying. Finding out exactly what he means would be the smarter thing to do, but I'm too busy trying to understand why he shoos me out of his life in one moment and makes me feel irreplaceable in the next. He wields his sincerity like a sword, and has a knack for leaving me reeling. Luckily for me, I'm just as good at avoiding things as he is.

"I'm like a drug. I sedate you with my charm, and once you feel comfortable, I let the crazy loose on you."

"I kind of like your crazy. It's a refreshing change from the mundane." His voice is so soft, tinged with the tiniest hint of resignation.

Labelling his life as prosaic is a cop-out. I am the most boring person I know, and my life is far from dull. I struggle to keep my tone light and joking. The message I'm speaking sits heavily in my heart. "Something tells me your life is anything but mundane. You provide rides to helpless commuters without ever shifting a gear, you dispense road-side assistance to injured crash victims while remaining cool, calm, and collected, plus you deliver life-saving lattes and offer book-carrying services to lowly, desperate students."

"It's all in a days work." He can't pull off nonchalance, even with a crooked half-smile painted on his lips. The emotions he keeps locked inside, along with the cause behind them, are lurking so close to the surface right now that I can practically see his skin toiling to contain them.

"What about your nights?" I ask.

"I try to keep rescues to the daytime hours. A hero needs his rest."

A picture of Zorro pops into my mind. It's fitting, given Masen's proclivity for defending the weak and vulnerable. He may not wear the black mask, but his identity is analogously hidden under layers of wit and deflection.

I snort. "I refuse to believe your only hobby is aiding the less fortunate. You must have at least one guilty pleasure."

"Sleep."

I change tactics. "Sleep is a necessity. What do you do for fun? I've only known you a few days, a couple of weeks if you count our email exchanges. What did you do before you met me?"

"The same things I've done since I met you. I don't understand what you're getting at."

I consider screaming 'your girlfriend' at him when it suddenly occurs to me that maybe she isn't his girlfriend at all. She could be his ex, or worse, his fuck buddy. He doesn't seem like a kiss-and-tell kind of guy, and it would go a long way towards explaining why he hasn't mentioned her. Still, it doesn't explain his reluctance to hang out—unless he thinks I'm coming on to him. And if he's worried about that, why does he flirt with me?

"I'm just trying to get to know you. Simple basic things like your favourite colour, why you chose Dartmouth, or whom you spend your time with. There have to be some basic choices that have gotten you to this point in your life."

His expression is agitated, betraying the tumultuous state of his mind. He's not happy that I haven't let him off the hook.

"Blue, because, and no one." His jaw clenches.

"Because is not an answer, and neither is no one. You live on a planet with seven billion people. You must have someone to hang out with. Otherwise you'd consider hanging out with me."

"Wow." He blinks hard, staring straight ahead. "I don't even…"

"Why is it so difficult for you to tell me about her?"

He does a double take, a quiet gasp escaping as he turns his head towards me. His cold, green stare frightens me a little, though I try not to let it show. When he turns away, I know the conversation is over.

Before I know it, he's pulling over to drop me off.

"Listen, Masen—"

He holds his hand up to silence me.

I sigh, grab may backpack, and get out of the car. To further hammer home his point, he reaches across the car to slam my door shut before I have the chance to do it. The loud noise startles me. I'd prefer yelling to this. At least it's a step above hand signals.

I turn and wave, feeling ashamed and contrite for wrecking the drive, possibly wrecking everything. I can't even blame my inability to see the signs. I saw them all and pushed past them because I wanted him to let me in. Now, I may be out for good.

He rolls the window down. The pain in his eyes is unbearable, and he doesn't try to hide it.

"I'm sorry," I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat.

"People like you are part of the reason I'm here instead of at Harvard. You take one look at me and assume you know who I am. I'm so fucking sick of people telling me what to do and who I'm supposed to be."

"I'm not asking you to be anyone but who you are. I just wanted to know about the blonde on your phone. She's obviously important to you."

"Mind your own fucking business, Bella."

Between his cutting words, his angry glare, and the squeal of his tires, it's a wonder I'm still standing when he drives off.

* * *

**A/N**: A little longer. A little angsty. I had trouble with this one, not gonna lie.

I'm once again behind in review replies. Thanks for your patience. I appreciate the support more than you could know.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love, and it is Monday. Who can't use some extra love on a Monday?


	18. Rant

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Rant**

**Plot Generator—Binding Blurb: In 500 words or fewer, write a blurb or a short entry on _the dog days of summer_.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

Paying attention in my first class is all but impossible. I hate how Masen and I left things. I need to apologize again, even if I'm the last person he wants to hear from.

My study session with Angela is marginally more productive. She goes off on a rant about the size and scope of her creative writing assignment, so I don't think she realizes that I'm distracted. The scones I brought her seem to go a long way towards making up for my mental absence.

We grab lunch—a bagel and chocolate milk—and sit under the trees outside Sanborn Hall.

I watch her eyes drift across the lawn to a group of guys. Her attention is on the black-haired boy at the edge of the group.

"Do you know him?" I ask.

"He lives in Bissell Hall on the floor below me. I see him in the lounge sometimes. He goes there to read. He must like the noise or something."

"Does loverboy have a name?"

She stares at her feet, struggling to keep the shy smile from her lips. It gives away exactly what how she feels about him. "Ben, I think."

"He's looking this way."

She raises her head and meets his gaze. His eyes dart away for a moment, but come right back to her face. He's so unsure that he can't quite smile, but his whole expression softens. Angela studies his face thoughtfully, her intent unwavering. She looks hopeful, confident—open to the world of possibility that exists between them.

Witnessing their moment, feeling the potential in it, stirs me, and I have to look away. Attraction is so simple, not at all like what has unfolded between Masen and me. Then again, maybe chemistry is the easy part. If the dance he and I are doing is any indication, surrendering to the seduction is where things become confusing and complicated.

"Do you have someone?" she asks.

"Nope, completely and utterly single." I try to keep the despair out of my voice, but Angela picks up on it anyway.

"No need to be down about it. The pickings around campus are pretty good."

"I found a guy. I'm just not sure he's interested."

I tell her about my instant fascination with Masen, detailing his charm and our easy rapport. She finds his desire to keep so much of himself hidden as strange as I do. After explaining our fight, she encourages me to text him an apology.

"It can't hurt," she says. "It might make you feel better, and you're not pressuring him for a reply."

Her advice makes sense. Once she leaves for class, I send Masen a text.

"_Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." ~Dr. Seuss I'm sorry :(_

I don't really expect him to answer, but I can't deny that I hope he will.

By late afternoon, I'm starting to worry. I send another text, just in case he didn't get the first.

_I'm so sorry. Please don't be angry with me. I know I screwed up. If you forgive me, I'll bake you cookies. :)_

At 7:30, with no way to get home on my own, I phone Angela. There's no sign of Masen, and he's not answering his phone. Thankfully, she invites me to crash in her room, so at least I'll have a place to stay. She's more familiar with the campus than I am, so I ask her to text me directions to her dormitory, including as many landmarks as she can think of so I don't become a victim of my poor sense of direction. I pack up my books and head out.

I'm more disappointed in Masen than anything else. I don't care that much about not having a ride, but I wish he'd given me a chance to apologize.

A block away from the library, a car honks at me. Seeing his silver Volvo behind me makes me feel a little foolish for jumping to conclusions. I toss my backpack on to the floor and slide into the passenger seat.

The wrong pair of eyes is staring back at me.

"You must be Bella. It's nice to meet you. Edward's told me so much about you."

* * *

**A/N**: "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." ~Dr. Seuss

Welcome to the new group of people reading. I'm glad to have you here.

There is a great divide in how reviewers feel about what's going on. Some want Masen to apologize. Others think Bella went too far. It's been very interesting for me to see your reactions, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing them with me.

I'm still behind in review replies. My writing time has been almost nil for the last week, so I'm focusing on writing and asking for your patience once again. Thank you in advance.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

And with that, I can't wait to see how you feel about this chapter :) Leave me a review and let me know.


	19. Fence

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Fence**

**Dialogue Flex: "What time is it?" he asked.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I'm at a total loss for words. It must show on my face because she speaks again.

"Sorry. I came straight from work. I don't normally look this bad." Her perfectly manicured hand sweeps down her body, drawing my attention to the pink scrubs she's wearing. What I really notice is her hourglass figure and legs that look longer than my entire body. The eyes I couldn't see in the photo, the ones that were hidden behind the icons, are deep blue and soulful.

"You are Bella, aren't you?"

I snap out of my daze, forcing a smile to my lips. "Yes."

"I'm Rosalie. Edward asked me to pick you up. There was an emergency at the hospital, and he was unavoidably detained."

"Unavoidably detained?"

She smiles, not the reassuring kind, but one that says: I'm not going to bullshit you.

"A train derailed; total chaos. The med students don't normally see this kind of situation except during simulated training exercises. It was a great chance for them to deal with a disaster of this magnitude firsthand."

Her blonde curls extend halfway down her back and bounce each time she moves her head.

"Is he okay?"

"Oh honey, he's fine. He thrives on this stuff."

I nod, accepting the pieces of the story she's given me.

"I apologize for being so late picking you up. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him. It will just give him another excuse to be pissy with me. I'm sure you know how he can be."

At least it's not just me he's moody with.

"A little. I haven't known him very long."

"If you've known him at all, you've probably seen that temper of his. He wasn't always like that." She adds the last part quietly, almost as an afterthought.

I feel a little deceitful hearing details about him that he hasn't wanted to share himself, especially from her.

"Rosalie, it's really kind of you to drive me home, but my friend said I could stay with her on campus. It's probably a better idea since I'm not sure how I'll get back tomorrow. I haven't had time arrange for a new rideshare partner yet."

"So you have seen his temper." Her laugh is carefree. She checks her mirrors and eases the car into traffic. The route to my apartment appears on the GPS screen once the car starts to move.

"It was my fault. I pushed him to open up to me."

"Bella, it's not you. He's angry at the whole world right now. I'm happy that you're trying to get to know him. He needs more people in his corner."

Her encouragement that I should get to know her boyfriend better is peculiar. I have to fight not to shake my head at her.

"He doesn't think so. He told me he doesn't have time for a social life."

She snorts. "That's a load of crap."

"Do the two of you work together?" Maybe that's why he has time for her.

"Hopefully one day we will, depending on his specialty and whether he stays in the area after he's finished school. I'm a paediatrician. I'm not sure Edward wants to work with kids."

The idea of Edward and children is foreign. It only serves to remind me how little I actually know about him. It's probably better things have turned out the way they have, before I had time to really fall for him, before I get my heart broken.

"Can you drop me at Bissell Hall?"

"Bella, Edward would never forgive me if I left you stranded on campus."

"Quite honestly, Rosalie, I don't think Masen would give a shit if I were lost in a dark forest, surrounded by a pack of wolves."

"If that were true, do you think he would have gone to the trouble of arranging a ride for you?"

"He's honouring the commitment he made, because that's the kind of guy that he is. It has nothing to do with me."

"Nonsense. You're important to him, even if he hasn't realized it yet."

I laugh. I can't help myself. What she's saying is absurd. Why would I be important to him when he has her? How can I be important and shut out of his life? I truly want to know, and I have a feeling Rosalie could probably explain why Masen treats me the way he does, but I'm sitting on the fence about asking her. It's perverted and, quite frankly, desperate to ask someone's girlfriend to explain why her guy flirts and fights with me in equal parts. The bottom line is that Masen doesn't want me to know him. He probably doesn't even want me in his life anymore. Figuring out who he is won't change what's happened, and while it might satisfy my curiosity, it could just as easily hurt me. It's safer not to know.

"If you say so. You know him better than I do. How long have you guys been together anyway?"

She makes a noise that sounds like a combination of a shriek and laugh, then clamps a hand over her mouth. Her wide eyes give nothing away.

"Sorry, that was rude," she says once she's composed herself. "I was under the assumption that my brother told you who I was."

* * *

**A/N: **Lots of great guesses about who was in the car. Now you know. I still suck in the review reply department, but not because I don't care. I care a great deal. Time is just limited. In fact, I may have to skip posting for a couple of days. I should have my schedule worked out by tomorrow, and I'll let you know then, if I'm able. Thank you for all of your support on this story.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love, and I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	20. Candle, Handle, Vandal

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Candle, handle, vandal**

**Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

"Masen is your _brother_?"

At least the car is dark. She can't see that I'm flushed poppy-red from head to toe.

"Brother… idiot… it's a fine line."

"I'm really sorry, Rosalie. I saw your picture on the background of his phone. I assumed… well, you're so pretty, and he had his arms around you. It made sense since he'd already refused my dinner invitation, and—"

"And you presumed we were together. I get it." She snickers.

"It's just that he was so weird about hanging out with me. He was all: 'I don't think that would be a good idea, not that I don't want to.'" Contradictory much? And I tried to ask him about you, but he got angry at me."

"Wait. He was angry because you asked about a picture?"

"I asked him to tell me about the blonde on his phone."

A hint of recognition registers on her features before she evens out her expression, and nods. "That's no excuse for him to fly off the handle. Please tell me that my brother had the decency to tell you that his actual name is Edward."

"Yes, he told me." I smile, but it doesn't feel natural.

"But you call him Masen anyway?"

"That's how he introduced himself, so I assumed that's what he prefers to be called. I do call him Eddie to screw with him."

She chuckles. "You're a better woman than I am, Bella. I'm ready to punch him in the face for the way he's acting."

"I admit I don't understand why he's so moody, but he doesn't feel comfortable opening up to me about it. That's his prerogative."

"True, but that doesn't give him licence to be a prick, either."

It feels like she's testing me. If I agree with her statement, then I'm cold. If I disagree, I'm a doormat. Regardless, I can't let Masen take all the blame for what's happened between us.

"He's a good guy. He just prefers to keep his life private, and it's not as if he hasn't been clear about that. I'm the one who didn't respect his boundaries. I thought we could be friends."

"He's an ass if he lets you slip through his fingers." The sad smile on her lips tells me she's thinking the same thing I am: he's already let me go. At this point I have nothing to lose.

"From the few things he has told me, I was kind of hoping you were his girlfriend. He needs someone who loves him unconditionally, someone who can get close enough to him to carry some of his burden."

"He needs you," she says quietly. "Don't give up on him."

"He gave up on me, Rosalie."

"If that's true, then he deserves to be alone."

The lull in conversation is a welcome reprieve, giving me time to process the things she's told me. I don't like the silence, though. Out of habit, I reach for Masen's phone to put on some music. My stomach bottoms out when I realize what I've done, and then a second time when I feel the glass and metal under my fingertips. In the back of my mind, I know the relief is pointless—he's still angry with me and wants me to stay out of his life—but knowing he wasn't ignoring my texts, that he couldn't contact me because he left his phone in his car, gives me a tiny bit of hope.

"That's such a shame." Rosalie points to the 'Welcome to Claremont' sign as we pass it. The once pristine sign is now covered in black and pink spray paint, the tag of a vandal with too much time on his hands. I quietly agree with her.

A minute later, she's pulling up in front of my building.

"Thanks so much for the ride." My words are polite but too formal, and I feel like a heel for needing to say them. What else could I say? Thank you for telling me a little bit about your brother? Sorry he dumped his reject in your lap? The whole situation is a little surreal.

"It's been a real pleasure meeting you, Bella. My brother has his reasons for burning the candle at both ends, but I'm sorry he's hurt you, all the same."

"I don't have any regrets. If I had to do it all again, I'd do everything the same way." Well, almost everything.

I smile at her, and she returns it. I can see Masen in the way her eyes crinkle and those damned dimples. As I pick up my backpack, I inhale deeply and look around the Volvo, taking in the final vestiges of him—the cool grey interior and the rich leather smell mixed with some other scent that's quintessential Masen.

Rosalie's phone rings. "I should get this."

"Of course. Thanks again." I excuse myself with a tiny wave and slip out of the car.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing. The support you've given me has been so wonderful, and I truly appreciate it.

My posting schedule over the long weekend is still up in the air. I promise to do my best, but don't be surprised if I miss a time or two. Tomorrow night should still be a go.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Please leave a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	21. Ticket

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Ticket**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I reheat some leftover pasta and pour myself a glass of wine. What I really want is a bath, but I'm uncomfortably hungry and the wine will go directly to my head if I don't put some food in my stomach. Once I'm done eating, I fill the tub with steaming water and add _Warm Vanilla Sugar_ bubble bath, just the ticket to dissolve the day away. A refill of my Pinot Grigio will obliterate any residual edge while I soak. My phone is tucked safely under my towel, just in case. I don't expect to hear from Masen, but if he does contact me, I want to be able to answer.

The last thing I do before I slip into the water is put on some Chopin. By the time Piano Concerto No. 1 ends, the bath water is cool, my glass is empty, and I'm thoroughly relaxed.

I shrug into my robe and curl up on the couch to finish my reading. The words in front of my eyes are brilliant, but my attention wavers. The notes I'm taking suffer, too, not nearly as detailed as they should be. I blame the wine so I won't have to acknowledge the real reason for my distracted state.

The evening becomes morning before I accept that he's not going to call or text. I feel shitty all over again because the whole thing is my fault. I went too far—asked too much of him—and it doesn't matter if I was doing it for the right reasons. The blame is still mine.

Stretching out, I press my cheek into the soft velvet upholstery and succumb to the defeated feeling that is transfusing my body. Even though I have no idea whether he'll come in the morning, tomorrow is another day, and I can't stop it from coming. My heavy eyes close of their own accord.

A soft knock on the door wakes me. I amble off the couch, squinting against the dim morning light to read the stove clock. It's just after 6:00 AM.

The moment I peek around the door, he thrusts a box at me. His blazing eyes scream unspoken apologies. I invite him in with a wave, and step aside so he can get by.

This may be my only shot to say something, so I take it. "I'm so sorry. None of this is your—"

"Bella."

"Please just let me say this. None of this is your fault. You had every right to be angry with me after the way I behaved. I should have told you when I accidentally saw the picture of you and Rosalie on your phone. Instead, I mistakenly assumed she was your girlfriend, and I was… well, I was jealous." The heat of my blush flashes up my neck and across my cheeks, and I can't look him in the eye any longer. I walk to the couch and begin to straighten up the books I left scattered on the floor and table last night. "I'm sorry that I pushed you yesterday. I want to know you, but you don't owe me any explanations. You don't owe me anything, not even a ride."

When I turn around, he's staring at me, but not at my face. His eyes are transfixed on the spot where the silver fabric of my robe ends and my bare skin begins, a little higher than mid-thigh. I don't kid myself when it comes to my looks. I'm not tall or leggy, and there is nothing remarkable about my face. I'm generally described as 'cute,' as much as I wish it were something more sirenlike. My best feature is my hair, and clearly that's not what has Masen's attention. I've never witnessed anyone looking so lustfully at me.

"It was very kind of you to ask your sister to pick me up last night, given what happened between us," I add, trying to subtly refocus him on our conversation.

His eyes dart to my face and back down to my thighs where they linger. I'm a little worried about embarrassing him by drawing attention to what he's doing, though if he's aware of his behaviour, he doesn't seem to mind that he's been caught. I spin around to give him time to snap out of it, bending over to pick up the last of my textbooks off the ground. When he groans quietly, I realize I've probably just flashed him most of my thighs, if not the bottom of my ass cheeks and panties. I should be self-conscious, but I'm not. How could I be when he's looking at me exactly the way I want him to?

My arms encircle my copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_ and hold it tight against my chest. I square my shoulders and face him, ready to wait him out. I don't know what else to do.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing. I'm out of town tomorrow, so I won't be posting anything until at least Sunday or Monday.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love. Leave me one last August review, if you ignore the fact that it's after midnight here, that is. *grins*


	22. Uniform

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Uniform**

**Plot Generator—Phrase Catch: Time's up…**

**Repeat the phrase to yourself five times, open a blank word document and begin.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

It feels like minutes pass, but it's probably only a handful of seconds. His scrutiny makes me feel awkward because I have no idea why he's here at dawn, and what his stare means in light of the fact that he's single.

But I won't ask—can't ask—a single question on any personal subject that he doesn't bring up first, especially not while our relationship is tenuous at best.

When he finally snaps back to reality, his gaze falls to the ground, and he runs a hand through his hair. To give him a moment, I head to the kitchen, laying his offering on the counter along with my book.

"I need coffee. Do you want some?"

He scowls and points. "Open the box."

I ignore him for a moment. I probably seem a little rude, since he has no idea how little sleep I've had, but I need caffeine to jolt my coherency. Now more than ever, it's important for me to stay on my toes so I don't make a potentially uncomfortable situation worse. I peek up at him and smile while I rinse the carafe. As I fill it with water, I try to decipher the thoughts behind his tense expression.

"Less smiling, more looking."

I chuckle at his attempt to be funny. If he could see his face, he'd understand how badly he missed the mark. I get the paper filters out of the cupboard and press one into the filter basket. His eyes following me like laser beams.

"Why don't you let me finish making the coffee?" he asks. "You have a box to open."

There's barely enough room for one person in my tiny kitchen. Masen can't get by me without our bodies making contact. He must sense this as he slides behind me, lightly grasping my waist to hold me still. His hands dally, staying longer than needed. I don't mind. In fact, I rather like it.

"Nice robe." He grumbles under his breath, sounding very much like a hissing snake as he mutters something about 'stupid shiny short silver satin.' I bite my lip to keep from snickering. I'll tell him how good my hearing is at another time.

"Thanks."

"Let me," he says, taking the canister from my hands. Between emptying scoops of coffee into the filter, he gazes over his shoulder at me. "Go; open."

Instead, I lean around him, holding the carafe. His body is rigid as I press lightly against him and pour the water into the coffee maker.

"Will you just look in the fucking box?"

So much for avoiding his temper. I resist looking for a little while longer, partly because I don't want him to order me around, and maybe even to mess with him, but mostly because I need my coffee, stat!

"I'm getting there." I yawn and stretch. His irritation is almost tangible. To diffuse it, I pull my favourite mug off the shelf, pressing up on my tiptoes as I reach to retrieve it. He gets his second show of the day if he's looking, because I can feel the cool air on my behind while my arm is above my head. I've finally found a situation where being short is to my advantage. And his.

I expect his intensity when I turn to face him. At least this time I understand it: he's seen my cheeky display.

He slides the box toward me.

"Time's up."

"Why? Are you going to take it back if I don't open it?"

"Are you always this stubborn about accepting apologies?" he asks, his eyebrow arched in disbelief.

"Are you always this silent when giving them?"

He huffs and looks away, his shoulders buckling in resignation. Even in his brooding, he's exceptionally attractive—the gentle upslope at the tip of his nose, the furrow of his brow, the hard line of his plump lips, and most notably, the uniform flex and release of his sharply angled jawline.

"It's way too easy to say 'I'm sorry' without meaning it. They're just hollow fucking words. I'm not incapable of speaking the phrase, but you'd have to trust me to believe I was sincere, and I haven't done enough to earn your trust."

"Do you honestly think I don't trust you? I get in a vehicle every day with you. You've gone out of your way to make me feel comfortable. You've been upfront with your schedule, on time picking me up—"

"I wasn't on time last night."

"And got me a ride in your absence. You've shared your phone and music, you bought me a coffee, and you found me in the library when you were early. And let's not forget keeping me safe when the collision happened right in front of us. What about this should make me distrust you?"

"You shouldn't give your trust so easily."

The dangerous tone of his voice reiterates the warning in his words, but that's not what holds my attention. His eyes burn an eerie, haunted green, the manifestation of a barely controlled hatred. It doesn't have to do with me but rather hinges on his statement. He thinks I shouldn't trust him, and he doesn't trust me.

"It's my choice whom I trust, but I appreciate your concern," I say softly.

He doesn't have to speak his disapproval; it's written all over his face.

* * *

**A/N: **Hi. :) Chapters this week will likely post every other day. That's my goal anyway, although I'm aiming for daily. We'll see. I'm just trying to be realistic, given my schedule.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Thanks for the support.


	23. River

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: River**

**A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I loathe the way he's scowling at me almost as much as not being able to ask about the enmity in his eyes. Surely it relates to why he's so closed off. Getting him to trust me enough to open up feels like a losing proposition, but I won't let that stop me from trying. I know it will take time. Given everything that's happened between us in the last twenty-four hours, the best thing I can do right now is tread lightly.

I turn my attention to the box. Grasping the tail of the bow, I unravel the string and deposit it onto the counter. Then I peek under the lid. Nestled safely inside are four cannoli.

"You remembered," I whisper.

"If two are a pick-me-up, then four ought to make up for the outrageous way I behaved yesterday, even if I don't deserve it."

I resist the urge to fight his logic. He let me have my say; I owe him the same courtesy.

"Where did you get cannoli at 6:00 in the morning?"

"A gentleman never divulges his secrets."

He walks over to the dining table and pulls out a chair. After pretending to wipe the seat with an imaginary cloth, he waves his hand over it in invitation. The action is markedly romantic, even more so with the shy smile on his lips. He looks expectantly at me, and I can't deny him.

I quickly grab two plates out of the cupboard and sashay up next to him. He pushes my chair in once I sit, then brings my mug and the carafe of coffee to the table as I set a cannolo out for each of us.

"How do you take your coffee?" I ask, filling the mug while I wait for his reply.

"Black is fine; cream is better. I've been known to drink battery acid if that was all that was available. I'm not very particular."

He complains when I put the cup down in front of him. I ignore his grousing, and quickly get another mug and the creamer from my fridge.

"Sorry, this is all I have."

I put the container down in front of him. He chuckles after he reads the label.

"Of course it's vanilla-flavoured."

"Only the best!"

We sit quietly, drinking and eating. He serves me a second cannolo, and pushes the box at me.

"I can barely finish two of these suckers. You're going to have to help me out," I say.

I reach in and pluck out the last pastry. When I spy the red ink on the doyley lining the box, I freeze. There, written in elegant script, are the words: I'm sorry.

Tears flood my eyes, unbidden. It's so much to have him here at dawn with treats and apologies and romantic gestures, all while I struggle to repress my questions, afraid to alienate him again.

"Hey." His voice is whisper quiet, but I hear the concern in the single word he utters.

"Sorry."

"You apologize too much." The tender look in his eyes makes me swoon. "You should follow my lead. Only apologize when you fuck up big-time, and do it with fattening sweets."

I laugh, and it sets off a river of tears.

His hand extends across the table and stops, hovering a few inches from my face. He doesn't touch me, but the twitch of his fingers makes it seem as though he wants to comfort me. It's almost as good as if he actually had, certainly more than enough for me.

"You're one of those weird girls, who cry when they're happy, aren't you?" His tone is deliberately absurd.

I roll my eyes at him and smile.

"I cry about everything."

He leans forward, draping most of his upper body across the tabletop. I'm pulled in by him like gravity or magnetism, some invisible force that I don't fully understand but can't—and don't want to—resist. His Adam's apple bobs up and down slowly as he swallows, his eyes locked on my lips.

"For what it's worth, I really am sorry for losing it yesterday. You weren't the only one who jumped to conclusions."

The anguished look on his face divulges his internal struggle, but his body language is decidedly at odds with his expression—a war between desire and control. He wants to dry my tears, but stops short. He comes closer to me, but keeps his distance. He watches my lips with hooded eyes, but doesn't kiss me. He won't let himself. The question is why?

* * *

**A/N:** I don't pretend to be Italian or know much about cannoli except that they're delicious. According to Wikipedia, cannoli is the plural form, cannolo is the singular form. If I'm wrong on this or have used the words incorrectly, please forgive me.

Thanks for reading & reviewing.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	24. Bell

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Bell**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

His intensity is palpable. I wipe my cheeks as an excuse to look away, taking a moment to gather my wits.

"I never meant to upset you." Even if he knows this, it bears repeating. "You have no idea how bad I feel. None of this would have happened if I'd minded my own business like you asked."

"That was a dick thing for me to say, Bella. I have a hare-trigger temper sometimes, and it was unfair to take my anger out on you. I'm ashamed of the way I behaved."

He's drowning in guilt, and I want to relieve him of it.

"I forgive you," I whisper.

"Thank you." His reply is quiet, too, maybe too quiet. I can't tell what he's thinking from the tone of his voice or the look on his face.

Whatever force had charged the air between us fizzles when his gaze falls from mine. It feels as though he's withdrawing, and I know I have to let him.

"You probably want to head home and get your day started."

He runs his hand across his neck and shoulders, rubbing them gently as though they're stiff. "I thought I'd go home and grab an hour or two of sleep. I haven't been to bed yet."

"I don't know how you do it." I gather our dishes, and bring them to the kitchen, an easy distraction that hides my heavy heart. "I don't function very well when I'm exhausted."

"I sleep when I can. Your body just sort of reprograms itself."

My eyes follow him as he lumbers towards the door. He seems infinitely more tired than when he arrived, despite the caffeine and sugar.

"Are you going to be okay to drive?"

"I don't have far to go. I'll turn up the stereo and roll the windows down." His easy grin tells me he's done this plenty of times before.

I shuffle over to him, forcing my body to move against its will as I try to accept that it's time to say goodbye.

"Thank you for coming. I'm glad we had a chance to clear the air."

"Me, too."

"I hope you're able to get some rest. Don't worry about me; I'll find my own way to school today, and I'll contact the rideshare program about a new partner."

He frowns. "You don't want to drive with me anymore?"

"I'm one more hassle in your already busy life. You don't need that."

"I signed up for this, Bella."

"You signed up to be paid to give someone a ride."

"And that's what I'm trying to do," he says with a frustrated huff.

I'm not trying to perturb him, but that's exactly what I've done, which only illustrates my point. No matter what I do, I seem to exasperate him in some manner.

"Even if all I do is aggravate you?"

"I've had a few bad days." He scrubs a hand over his face.

"And I have a knack for bringing out the worst in you."

"How do you know I'm not this way with everyone?"

His question stops me in my tracks. The idea had never occurred to me. I don't know how he interacts with the outside world because we only exist in our ride-to-school bubble.

"I don't, I guess."

"I may not always act like it, but my favourite part of the day is the time I spend with you."

"Really?" I'm so surprised that my voice squeaks.

"Is that so hard to believe?" he asks with a laugh.

Frankly, it is, and he notices the skepticism in my expression.

"I've had a boatload of shit on my mind lately. There have been a lot of… changes in my life in the last six months. That's no excuse, but I'd really appreciate it if you could put a little bit of faith in me and give me a chance to prove that I'm not always an asshole."

"I don't think you're an asshole, far from it. This isn't about my faith, either, because you've always had that. You and I… we seem to be expending a lot of energy avoiding stuff… "

"What stuff?"

Avoiding a conversation about avoiding is hypocritical, but telling him the truth scares the shit out of me. I don't want him to shut down.

"You avoid giving direct answers to a lot of my questions, and I avoid asking a lot of things because I don't want to make you angry."

"That's just normal getting-to-know each other junk. Besides, I'm trying to create a little mystery."

"Oh, yes, the mystery." I roll my eyes. "The tiny shifts in topic, the vagueness, the total redirections, and that smile—you're very good at using your charm to avoid things you don't want to talk about."

His bottom lip juts out, producing the most adorable pout.

"That right there," I say, pointing at his mouth, "is just another part of your charm, and you're trying to manipulate me with it so I'll forget that I asked why you don't answer my questions directly."

"Actually, you didn't ask a question. You made a statement that you wanted me to agree with, and I don't. It's called a difference of opinion, not avoidance."

He looks look like the cat that swallowed the canary.

"You asked your sister to pick me up without ever mentioning to me that she existed. You offered cryptic answers about why you couldn't come over for dinner while claiming that you'd like nothing better. You swear you always want to know what I'm thinking but change the subject or get angry with me when I tell you what's in my head. You avoid sharing most personal details." I bite my lip and look down. "It's confusing. You flirt up a storm, but you won't let me in, as if keeping me out will let you avoid acknowledging the potentiality between us."

"So you're saying you don't want to drive with me." He gives me his dimpled smile. If I had any doubt that dazzling me is another avoidance tactic for him, he's just erased it permanently.

"Do you still want to drive with me?" I ask.

He folds his arms across his chest and leans into the doorframe. "I do. You _know_ I do, and now, _I know_ you know I do."

I chuckle, shaking my head at his cockiness. He's all about control; every action is calculated and purposeful, but the resulting self-confidence is over-the-top sexy.

"I'll pick you up at 9:30," he says. It's not even a question in his mind. He's either hedging his bets, or the way I feel about him is completely obvious.

"I'll be there with bells on," I say, unsure whether or not I'm being sarcastic.

He hooks his pinkie finger around mine, pulling our linked hands into the space between us. I stare and wonder if it's his way of acknowledging what's going on between us in the same way he used a song as an apology. If that's what he's doing, I wish it were clearer. It's more likely wishful thinking on my part. I'm in unfamiliar territory with him—bone-deep attraction mixed with hormones and my heart—and I don't want to see what isn't there. I want concrete. I want confirmation. Instead, I feel like I'm sailing too close to the wind.

"Thank you," he whispers.

He softly squeezes my finger, then lets it go.

I nod and look up into his too-intense gaze, seeing green ghosts pass behind his eyes. With a wink, he's gone, disappearing into the elevator before I close my apartment door.

He doesn't have to create mystery. He's mysterious enough just being Edward Masen.

* * *

**A/N: **My apology for not posting on Saturday. This chapter was a little longer to make up for it :)

Welcome, new readers. Thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing.

My posting schedule this week will likely be the same as last week: every other day.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

Reviews are love, and I'd love to hear what you think :)


	25. Slice

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Slice**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

As much as I'd like to go back to sleep after Masen leaves, it's impossible. I'm way too keyed up. Instead, I clean my apartment and catch up on some reading for school. I finish getting ready in plenty of time and go outside to wait for him.

I'm not sure what to expect of him or the drive, and when he pulls up, my stomach is knotted with anxiety.

He looks so incredibly tired that it's a struggle to stay in my seat once I'm inside the car. I want to wrap my arms around him and comfort him.

"You shouldn't be here," I say, feeling terribly guilty that he's not home in bed, where he belongs.

"I'm fine."

His reply is instantaneous, a standard response to a question he never really considers.

"You're not."

Without thinking, I reach out and trace my thumb along the purple circle under one of his eyes.

He sighs and, for a moment, leans into my palm. His lids slide closed. Then, he quickly pulls my hand away and looks forward, mumbling, "I'm used to it."

And there it is—the retreating.

The quiet surrounding us feels like my fault until he speaks.

"Showing up on your doorstep this morning was impulsive. I saw a problem I could solve and I solved it, but the way I went about it was rude. When you mentioned wanting to find a new rideshare partner earlier, it caught me off-guard. I had no right to ask you to continue to ride with me. I'm in this because I need the fucking money, which is my responsibility, not yours. If you want a new driver, you should look for one. I'm sure it won't be a big deal to find someone else for either of us."

I stare out the window, not knowing what to say. He planned his retreat before he even got into the car. He sees me as a problem, not a person, and he's trying to appease me to maintain his cash flow.

My anger waxes and wanes, but I don't let it show. I don't want Masen to see that he's upset me. Whatever his reason for doing so, if he's trying to pick a fight—and it feels like he is—I'm not helping him do it. My mind is on figuring out what to do about a ride.

There are a number of reasons I chose to rent off-campus. It made more monetary sense, for one; the apartment building I'm living in belongs to an old friend of dad's, so my rent is considerably discounted. I'm still saving a ton of money even after I pay for a ride to school. Plus, I'm not all that interested in dorm life. I'm not a partier, and I find noise very distracting. I knew I'd never get my work done in my dorm room, which would have meant endless amounts of time in the library. It was easier to have my own place where I could spread out and not worry about clamour or interruptions. I also don't mind the idea of commuting, and the time to get to campus isn't so long.

I'm not excited about the prospect of a new rideshare partner—finding another driver here in Claremont is unlikely—but I can deal with it. Being barraged with Masen's moods day after day isn't exactly appealing. When I get home tonight, I'll check the website for available rides, but I'd like to give driving with Masen a few more days before I make a final decision. I want to believe we can get past our differences.

I engage him in conversation a couple of times, once about his plans for the weekend and then about a song on the radio. His laconic replies suck the remaining hope from my body.

He parks the car in front of Sanborn Hall and turns off the engine; he normally leaves it idling. I'm instantly on edge.

"Will you be able to pick me up tonight?" I ask.

"Of course." He's annoyed with something, presumably my question.

"I'm done at 2:30. Send me a message when you're ready, and I'll meet you here."

"I can come find you."

"A text is easier. I don't want you to go out of your way."

"Listen…" he says, pausing to gather his thoughts.

Panic swells; my chest tightens. Whatever he's thinking, it can't be good.

"Let's keep this simple, ok? You have a seat for sale in your vehicle, and I need a way to get to school. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that. We're both mature adults capable of making this work. I'd appreciate it if you could have some faith in me and give this arrangement another week to work itself out. At that point, we can go out separate ways if either of us is unhappy. Does that sound good?"

"It's not as if I'd leave you with no ride, Bella."

"I know that, and that wasn't what I meant. You asked me for faith earlier; I was only asking the same in return. I thought you might appreciate having my expectations upfront."

"Fine." He barks the word at me without turning his head in my direction.

"Thanks for the ride. Text me with a departure time when you can."

"I got it."

Whoever I'm in the car with, he is not the man who introduced himself as Masen, the charming, polite, flirty guy that made me laugh and swoon. I think back to Rosalie's question about knowing his real first name and decide I'm seeing the brother she refuses to call anything but Edward.

"It's been a slice, Edward!" I say a little too sarcastically to be considered sincere.

He doesn't react to the use of his name, but I didn't really expect him to. He's too stubborn to give in now.

I hate that he's angry with me, but I have to let it go, and I try as I ease myself out of the passenger seat. This time I don't watch him drive off. Somewhere deep in my heart, I hope he's watching me walk away and hates it.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	26. Whir, Blur, Slur

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Whir, blur, slur.**

**Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

The school day goes by in a blur. My professors are all too happy to assign extra homework for the weekend, but in a way, I welcome it. I have two empty days ahead of me. It will give me something to do.

I grab a late lunch with Angela. She's so proud of herself for working up the courage to talk to Ben. I'm proud of her, too. As she recounts their conversation, I listen to her dissect every nuance in his mannerisms and word choices. Ben seems to be pretty straightforward as far as guys go. He's not full of mixed signals or outright grouchiness. He asked Angela to hang out on the weekend, and she's beyond excited about it. It's all so normal and adorable that I'm a little envious. The desire to have someone special in my life snuck up on me when Masen crossed my path. Angela's enthusiasm and positive energy about dating makes me want a boyfriend that much more.

Time gets away from me. I don't realize how late it's gotten until I see Masen's statuesque form crossing the quad. I quickly check my phone for a missed text from him. Of course there isn't one, which figures. I'm beginning to understand that he has his own way of doing things, regardless of what is asked of him.

"Who's the tall glass of water," Angela asks, following my gaze.

I smile as my cheeks bloom, displaying my feelings for Masen for everyone to see. "That's none other than Romeo Grumpypants."

"Wow, he's gorgeous."

I get to my feet, brushing the dust off my jeans. "I know, right? Incredibly charming, too."

"And he's studying to be a doctor?" She lowers her voice so Masen won't hear us now that he's in earshot.

"Yep."

The he's-too-good-to-be-true look on Angela's face says it all, and she hasn't even been in his presence yet. Her panties are going to spontaneously combust.

We walk over to him, meeting him halfway. With his eyes hidden by sunglasses, I can't pin down his mood.

"Edward Masen, this is Angela Weber."

He pushes his Ray Bans up onto the top of his head and gives her my favourite grin, extending his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Angela. You're Bella's study partner, aren't you?"

I mentioned Angela once in passing. I didn't think he'd remember her name, let alone why I know her.

Angela giggles, eyes blinking and falling to the ground. He's got her eating out of the palm of his hand already.

"That's me; you're her ride to school, right?"

"I see my reputation precedes me. Don't believe everything Bella says, unless it's good. Then I'm sure it's all true." His eyes are on me while he speaks, daring me to admit what I've told her.

"I bet you'd like to know what she's told me," Angela says.

Masen arches an eyebrow at her and chuckles. "Touché."

"I'll leave Bella in your capable hands, Edward. It was nice to put a face to the name."

"Same here, Angela. Have a good weekend."

As Ang turns to leave, a frisbee comes whirring towards us, barely missing her and striking me in the shoulder.

"Hey!" Masen's head swings around, his angry gaze landing on a group of guys a short distance away.

I smooth my hand over the stinging red mark on my skin.

"Are you okay, Bella?" Angela asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Masen's already stalking across the lawn.

Angie whispers, "You should stop him. He looks pissed."

I follow him, hoping he'll listen but knowing he won't. "Masen, I'm fine. Just forget it. It was an accident."

The guilty undergrad steps away from his friends, amidst their ridicule, and walks toward Masen.

"Wassup? Sssorry man. Rogue throw, yanno?" He slurs his words. It's 4:00 PM on a Friday afternoon. The chance he had a liquid lunch is high.

"You hit my friend, asshole, not me. What the fuck is wrong with you throwing a frisbee in a crowded quad?"

The guy looks petrified—Masen's got six inches of height on him easily.

"I'm fine," I say again, laying my hand on Masen's arm. I lean across him, and offer the guy his frisbee.

"Sssorry, lllittle one. I didunt meantah hit ya or pizzoff your friend here."

"No harm done." I smile, and subtly nod my head, hoping he'll take the hint and leave.

No such luck. He doesn't have a clue and stands there raking his eyes over me. Masen's practically vibrating with ire. Mr. Frisbee notices, too, and tries to diffuse the situation.

"Dddude, chill da fuckout, man. Itwaz an accident. Isnot like I'd hurt such a pppretty lllady on pppurpose." He grins at me and winks.

Masen takes a protective stance, guiding me behind him. I'm not sure why he feels threatened or why he thinks I need protection. Mr. Frisbee smells like weed and beer. There isn't much chance that he'd dish out anything more dangerous than an unwanted hug.

Angela's touches my hip gently, letting me know she's behind me. "Masen, why don't you take Bella to the car? She'd probably like to get off her feet."

Her voice snaps Masen out of his indignation enough to draw his attention to me. He slips his arm around my waist and leads me away from Mr. Frisbee, who stands there like an idiot and yells, "Can I ggget yur numberrr?"

Masen gnashes his teeth together and swears under his breath. It sounds more like a growl than actual words. Thankfully, Angela loops her arm through his as he begins to turn back to Mr. Frisbee.

"Would you mind giving me a lift to my dorm?" she asks Masen, smiling brightly at him.

"Sure."

His hand drops from around me after a few steps. I listen to Angela make small talk with him, not knowing what to say.

Once he unlocks the car, I slip into the backseat. I'm secretly thankful he drives a coupe. Angela shoots a nervous glance at me.

"You take the front. I'll switch seats once we drop you off."

Masen is poker-faced, giving nothing away about how he's feeling. His sunglasses are also back in place.

Angela gives him directions to her dormitory and they talk about how she likes living there. Masen's responses are polite, but his customary charm is absent.

She thanks him for the ride and helps me out of the back seat, wrapping her arms around me in a silent wish of luck.

He watches to make sure she gets into her building safely before he pulls away from the curb without a word.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing.

Before I post the next couple of chapters, I want to make sure I have them completely written so I don't leave the readers hanging for long. They're heavier. So probably Sunday for the next chapter, and then 2 or 3 days in a row probably, but we'll see how it works out. That's the plan, anyway.

Reviews are love.


	27. Circumstance

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Circumstance**

**Audio-Visual Challenge—Musical Mastery: "Falling Slowly" by Steve Kazee and Cristin Milioti from the Broadway musical _Once_.**

**Listen to the sample, then write whatever comes to you first.  
**

** /watch?v=KfeRdH4Q_sg**

Add You-Tube-.-com prior to that link to access it.

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I furtively study him for a couple of minutes. He's quiet, not upset or edgy like I expected he'd be. I feel foolish for yet again thinking I knew how he'd react. And maybe I'm kidding myself by assuming he doesn't want to talk to me—he won't even look at me—but given the circumstance, I'd rather follow his lead.

Five minutes into the drive, he plugs in his phone and turns on a playlist. The music confirms what he hasn't—he prefers not to talk at all. He hammers home his point by testing the limits of his sound system, the hard, somber beats pulsating through the speakers at a ridiculous volume, rendering the possibility of conversation hopeless.

_Message received, Edward_.

I take a book out of my bag and bury my nose in it. It's too loud to concentrate on the words, but I go through the motions to focus on something besides how I'm feeling.

He drums with the rhythm, his fingers tapping the steering wheel, his shoulders relaxed, and face passive.

I try to see his behaviour from a different perspective, not knowing what his day was like or what the music means to him. He's appears content, and I can endeavour to swallow down my irritation if this is what he needs.

I'm more than ready for the ride to be over with by the time he drops me off. I say goodbye and tell him to have a nice weekend, sliding out of the car without really looking at his face. It's juvenile, but I don't want to spend the next two days analyzing his expression or the tone of his voice.

He responds with a simple, "See ya," never bothering to turn the radio down.

Despite my best intentions, the better part of my weekend is spent obsessing over whether he might contact me. A text would have been great, and if he'd shown up at my door again, I would have been over the moon, but neither happens.

When he picks me up on Monday morning, the volume on the stereo is loud and remains that way, as though he wants to deter conversation. We smile at each other and exchange pleasantries. He asks if I got a lot of reading done on the weekend. I ask if he caught up on his sleep. Our conversation stalls there.

This time, I don't read but listen, searching the melody and lyrics for a message. Some songs are upbeat, others are downright depressing, but there is no common thread. I glean nothing but Edward's preference for music over me.

He's late picking me up that evening. I'm hungry and tired, lacking the patience to do anything but sulk. He's doing exactly what I asked of him—providing a seat that I pay to use—but it makes me miserable.

The week passes in exactly the same way—reserved greetings and trivial chit-chat that always feel somewhat counterfeit—but at least we've settled into a rhythm. On Wednesday, I start bringing my iPod and noise-cancelling earbuds to drown out the radio. It takes any remaining pressure to make conversation off both of us, and I'm able to get some work done during the ride. It's a lot like riding public transit, only with luxurious seats and climate control.

Neither one of us mentions a reassignment in the rideshare program again. I presume he's happy with our arrangement, since he hasn't said otherwise, and he probably assumes the same of me.

He no longer offers to come find me when his day finishes early. He sends a text with two words: "out front." He doesn't bring me a coffee, though he usually has one of his own. When I get into the car, he begins to drive without so much as a look in my direction. If he'd spared me a glance, he'd find me watching him, but I never catch him looking.

I try to adjust to being shut out by him, but my longing for his attention deepens with time. I miss his intensity and our old rapport.

I miss him.

By the end of the second week, I feel invisible. I'm sad before I see him, while I'm with him, after he leaves—and it's affecting everything. My concentration is shot. I'm not sleeping well and as a result, I'm short-tempered. I'm functioning but not living, holding my breath as I wait for something to change because I refuse to face what's staring me in the face: he doesn't want to be around me.

My iPod shuffles to _Falling Slowly_ from the Broadway musical _Once_. The duet between Steve Kazee and Cristin Milioti is hauntingly beautiful. I sing along, feeling hopeless, knowing I have to let Edward go.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who's reading and reviewing.

The next chapter will be posted tomorrow evening. I'd love to hear what you think is going on.


	28. Glass

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Glass**

**Dialogue Flex: "I have big plans for us this weekend," he said.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.**

**Not beta'd.**

**A/N:** A lot of readers have suggested they'd like to get into Edward's head. This prompt came out in his POV, so I went with it. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

**EPOV**

It wrecks me to keep her at arm's length—near enough to ensure she's safe but removed enough so I can't hurt her very deeply. Most days I'm not even sure why I do it, because it doesn't get easier. The longing multiplies endlessly. There is no safe distance for my heart.

To stay in control, I embrace the pain I've been shoving down for months. The vivid memories summon my hatred without trying. The anger wraps itself around my limbs and lips to stop my body from mutinying. It chokes the words before they can leave my throat, stiffens my fingers the moment the desire to touch her registers in my brain, compresses my vital organs to contain the way I feel about her.

The problem is I can still smell her, hear her—somehow fucking _feel _her. I can even taste her on my goddamn tongue. It's the sweetest fucking torture I've ever endured, but make no mistake, it is torture.

The music tempers her sounds, the coffee deadens my taste buds, but there's nothing I can do to banish her scent. Its essence remains in the cabin of the Volvo long after she's gone. It's agony; it's bliss, and I've morphed into a selfish, masochistic fuck who insists on tormenting himself.

I struggle to keep from looking directly into her eyes when we're together, knowing I'm a goner when I do. But I see her beautiful face reflected in the glass all around us. She gets a little sadder each time she gets into the car, and that's on me. It proves I'm weak and greedy—exactly what I've been accused of—so I split hairs to avoid owning the criticism. I tell myself she wants to ride with me or she'd make other arrangements, and resist the doubts that say otherwise. Admitting she'd rather be with someone else is akin to emotional suicide, but the suspicion presents itself way too often—that in and of itself should tell me something. Ignorance has become a state of mind that I choose daily.

The remnants of goodness in me, shredded fibrils of the steel cables that once existed, hound me to let her go. If I were a real man, that's exactly what I'd do. I can't keep her, yet I can't bring myself to stop holding on. I've come close to spilling my guts and telling her everything a couple of times, but to what end? Detailing my past will give her understanding, but it won't change what's happened or who I am. I don't want her pity; it's the only thing worse than losing her.

She's taken to singing this week; last week she only hummed. She's so engrossed in the music from her iPod that she isn't aware I turn down the stereo to listen to her. On Monday, it's up-tempo, pop crap that, much to my dismay, is catchy as hell. I download it that night when I get home. I'll never live it down if anyone finds Hot Chelle Rae on my phone, but hearing it makes me think of the last time I saw her smile, and I really miss her carefree grin.

By mid-week, it's Breaking Benjamin.

_I'm on my way to feel you dislocate.  
Safe in your space; I'm open, wide open. _

_I love your face. Just get away.  
I'm on my knees. Fuck you, fuck me._

Hearing those lyrics in her quiet, mezzo-soprano voice nearly undoes me.

Today, it's _Falling Slowly_ from the modern musical _Once_. I know it as soon as she sings the first line. My mother loved the friggen movie; I thought it was a sad sack of shit.

The song is about second chances, and hearing the words fall from Bella's lips makes me rethink everything I've done in the last couple of weeks. Halfway through the duet, her hollow voice matches the tears pooling in her eyes, and I feel like I've been punched in the stomach.

If I've done the wrong things for the right reasons, does that justify hurting her?

She's lost, and it's my fault. My choices have prevented her from being who she is. I know I'm not strong enough to give her up, but she shouldn't have to pay the price so I can keep her close.

I make a show of turning the stereo down, unplugging my phone, and cycling through radio stations a couple of times before turning off the sound system completely. If she notices, she doesn't let on. So I do the only other thing I can think of and offer her my phone like I did our first week together.

When she finally sees my hand, she removes one of her earbuds and asks, "What's this?"

"I'm a little jealous of your in-ear headphones right now. I'm pretty sure no music I've played for you made you sing. In fact…" I pull my phone out of her reach. "Why don't we plug your iPod in? You can have complete control of the selections, of course."

Her brow furrows. Looking at her sets off a dozen reactions in my body, but none so strong as the relief I feel when her dark brown eyes meet mine. There is no trust there, something that's entirely justified after rudely ignoring her for so long, but somehow, she isn't angry. I've never been more undeserving of a person's forgiveness, or more grateful for it.

"What if I want to listen to pop?" she asks.

"Anything you want."

There's a twinkle in her eye now. I can't be certain it's because of me, but I'm taking credit for it. Even if can't be everything she deserves, maybe I can give her some part of what she needs.

"Eighties music? Electronica? Adult contemporary?"

"Michael Bublé the fuck out of me if it makes you happy."

I'm rewarded with a giggle, and the levity it lends me is astounding. I feel like I can breathe again for the first time since I shut her out.

* * *

**A/N:** After some criticism, I spent some time considering the story today. My plan to finish it in August in 30 chapters was a fail on both counts. This is a good thing if you're enjoying the story, as it will be extended. But it also means I need to take a few days to reorganize and get back on track so I'm not here in another 30 chapters repeating this same message. Because of this, I don't have a strict posting schedule to give you guys right now. I'm aiming for Thursday night, but it's not a promise.

Songs mentioned in this chapter: _Topless_ by Breaking Benjamin, and _Falling Slowly_ by Steve Kazee and Cristin Milioti from the Broadway musical _Once._

Thank you to everyone who is supporting me and the story. Your kind words mean a lot to me. And thank you to **lisamichelle17** and **Ivygirl702** for their advice.

If you enjoyed EPOV and would be interested in more, let me know.


	29. Basket

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Basket**

**A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

For shits and giggles, I plug in my iPod and turn on the soundtrack from _The Wedding Date_. He rolls his eyes when he hears Bublé's voice begin to croon about 'saving the last dance.' Masen should know by now that I won't back down when he challenges me, especially about music.

"Only you would have Michael Bublé on your iPod, Swan," he says with a chuckle.

It's wonderful to see his perpetual scowl replaced, even if it may be short-lived. We need to talk.

"I try to keep you on your toes."

"You definitely do that." He shoots a sideways glance in my direction as I lower the volume on the stereo. "Do you dance?"

He's taking his cues from the music, but I suspect it's his way of keeping the conversation light and away from difficult topics.

"Not really. I wanted to take lessons for a long time, but my mother thought I didn't possess enough grace to be a dancer. After that, I always felt self-conscious any time I stepped on the dance floor."

"That's kind of harsh."

"That's Renée; forever critical and excessively opinionated, and she loves to share those opinions with anyone in earshot." He frowns. Before he has time to form a reply, I add, "What she lacks, my dad's made up for. He's a big teddy bear who loves me unconditionally. What about your parents?"

"I… um…" His fingers wrench the steering wheel as he blows out a breath.

I wait patiently for him to collect his thoughts, wishing that opening up were easier for him.

"My dad has ridiculously high standards that are impossible to live up to. My mom takes his overbearing manner in stride. She's a saint for putting up with him; I'd be a basket case in her shoes. He has no appreciation for how lucky he is to have such a good woman by his side."

"You're close with your mom?" I ask.

"Yes. She's the glue that holds us misfits together. I'm not sure what I'd do without her."

His affectionate tone warms me from the inside out. I want him to speak that way about me, to need me in such a significant and vital way. For that to be possible, he has to trust me, and that begins with making sure he knows he's important to me.

"I feel the same way about my dad. I don't have very many people in my life that I count on. He's definitely one of them. You've quickly become another. I'm not sure what the last couple of weeks were about, but I'm glad to have you back."

Not once during all the time he'd shut me out did I want to give up on him. I would have found the strength to walk away because it was the right thing to do for me, but it would have been the hardest thing I'd ever had to do.

Now that he's making an effort, the best thing I can do is turn the other cheek. No good will come of trying to make him pay for treating me poorly, and that isn't the kind of person I want to be. I've never been more certain that the broken man beside me needs someone in his corner.

The worry on his face is a product of his self-castigation. My anger isn't even a requirement; he's angry enough with himself. He buries his ire in charming ingratiation, holding everyone at arm's length so no one ever knows him well enough to see through his façade. But I see; maybe not the specifics behind what's made him this way, but certainly the collective toll they've taken.

What I want to know more than anything, more than why he shut me out, is whether he'll do it again, whether the difference in him today is truly a metamorphosis or another one of his mood swings.

"I'm not asking for an explanation," I say, hoping it pacifies him. "But if you're planning to ignore me again, could you warn me ahead of time? Just so I have some time to prepare."

"Sometimes I'm a little too much like my father." Shame chokes his voice.

"The only thing you share with him is a name, Edward."

"I wish that were true. He's an asshole, Bella, and I'm doing a hell of a good job imitating him lately."

"You don't give yourself enough credit. We all make mistakes; they don't have to define us."

"Some are irrevocable… unforgivable." His regrets are bone-deep and pain-riddled, too much for one man to contain or control.

"Forgiveness is a choice," I say, "permission we give to ourselves to move on from a misstep with the intention of doing better the next time around. No one is perfect."

He pulls up in front of my building and shuts off the engine. My stomach twists at the doubt in his expression.

"I want you to know that I don't think you're an asshole. You're a private person who doesn't trust easily, and that's okay. I have time; I'm not going anywhere."

His index finger absent-mindedly traces a circle on the gearshift as his gaze falls to his lap. The expression on his face makes him look so vulnerable.

"Bella, I..."

"You don't have to say anything. Just stop pushing me away. Don't give up on me, because I'm not going to give up on you."

His looks at me with watery eyes and nods his chin once.

I've said everything I wanted to say, so I scoop up my backpack and nod back. "Have a good weekend."

He reaches towards me, letting his fingers brush along the back of my hand. I can't be certain what he means, but I think it's another of his unconventional apologies.

The gentleness in his touch causes me to shiver.

I softly smile at him and slip out of the car.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who is supporting me and the story. Your kind words mean a lot to me.

Posting schedule should be every other day this week.

Does it feel like a turning point to you? I'd love to know what you think, so leave a review if you'd like to share your thoughts.


	30. Poignant

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Poignant**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

Friday night I bake brownies and watch _Fools Rush In_. To a hopeless romantic like me, Matthew Perry and Salma Hayek breathe magic into Alex and Isabel, renewing my faith in love. I relate even more to the flaws in the characters' relationship now because they remind me of what's happening with Masen.

An hour into the movie, I receive a two-part text from him.

"_Affectation of candour is common enough—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design—to take the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone." ~Jane Austen_

The quote is poignant all on its own, but the fact that it's from _Pride and Prejudice_, one of my all-time favourite books, makes it even more meaningful. I don't think Masen could have said thank-you for our talk that afternoon in a more beautiful way.

I'm proud I was able to be so honest and up front with him. I feel as though I've finally made a small step towards being let in by him. Now that I'm on the right path, I want to give even more of myself.

Knowing what I know about Masen, I can't move forward with any expectations. My heart has to remain open, regardless of the extremes of his personality, and I have to be willing to speak my mind. I can't let my fear of being hurt hold me back in any way. Above all else, I need to be quick to forgive while we navigate this path. At this point, I'm still guessing about what he wants. I'm pretty sure the attraction I feel is mutual, but I'm the only eager participant right now.

_You're just saying that because you want my brownies. If you're not busy, you're more than welcome to come over for one. ~B_

His polite refusal comes quickly.

_Sounds delicious, but I have to work_.

I give it one more shot. If nothing else, I'm making it clear that I want him here.

_They're still warm. ;)_

_Now you're just being cruel. What are you up to aside from creating tempting baked goods?_

The honest answer borders on indelicate, which makes it the perfect reply.

_Watching a movie. I'll probably take a bath when it's done, if you're not coming over. _

A few minutes pass before I'm fairly confident he's not going to respond. He's not ready to be direct with me, and more than likely, he's realized that if he changes the subject again, I'll just change it back. That's kind of my point. Plus, I want him to think about me, even if it's just in a fleeting way.

Once the movie ends, I clean up after myself and send Masen one last flirty text.

_Slipping into the tub. Vanilla-scented bubbles for the win! Good luck with your work. ~B_

An hour later, I'm curled up in bed, mostly asleep, when he finally replies.

_Sweet dreams, Bella_.

His likeness is behind my eyelids when they close. He's so alive, so real. The dimpled smile, green, green eyes, and carefree laugh I don't hear very often, they're all for me.

His smouldering look betrays how badly he wants me. He moves closer, kisses me. The heat from his lips spreads through me like a wildfire. His arms wrap around my back, hands drifting lower, teasing and taking. I arch into his touch when his fingers dip into my panties. Hot warm breath on my neck, a knee pushes my thighs apart. Hard, he presses himself where I want him most.

The images falter once I begin to undress him. My brain only knows his clothed form and seemingly doesn't wish to substitute anything illusory or inaccurate. The last thing I remember is his deep voice pleading with me to 'Please stay. Don't leave me.'

I wake up sweaty and panting, a demanding ache between my thighs. Relief is compulsory. I slide my fingers down my body, under satin and lace, until I feel slick wetness on my fingertips. The memories are so easy to conjure, his mouth sucking lightly at my neck, tongue swirling, fingertips dancing across my skin, our connection, intense, voltaic. It's a chimera of reality and fantasy that has me crying out for him in no time.

As I drift back to sleep, I wryly wonder how he'd like waking up to a text describing my dream and the consequence of it. Text flirting indeed.

* * *

**A/N:** Someone (think me) fell asleep on the couch last night before posting the chapter. Oops! :p Sorry for the delay. :) I blame my cold (and perhaps the Nyquil.)

Thank you to everyone who is supporting me and the story. I love hearing from you guys. Please leave a review and tell me what you think.


	31. Cut

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Cut**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I shop for groceries on Saturday morning and spend the afternoon doing homework. I think about texting Masen several different times but decide to wait until later in the evening. He beats me to the punch.

_My mom made brownies, and they're not so great. I think it's a conspiracy_.

_You call it conspiracy. I call it karma. When you refuse the most delicious brownies in Claremont, you invite mediocre replacements. ~B_

_There was no refusal! I had to work_.

_For warm, triple chocolate, macadamia nut brownies, you could have put your studying aside for an hour._

_Macadamia nuts?! Those are my favourite :( If it were just studying, I would have blown it off. My boss had other ideas._

It doesn't escape me that he alludes to coming over. At some point, I need to use that to my advantage, but right now, I'm distracted by his vague reference to a job.

_Is the term "boss" a euphemism for your girlfriend? _

"_Boss" refers to the woman who signs my cheques._

Of course he avoids responding to the girlfriend part of the comment. I'm pretty sure there's no one special in his life, but before I get ahead of myself, I want confirmation of that.

_You could work for your gf ;)_

_I have 3 women in my life: boss, mother, sister. Oh, and some chick I drive to school :p_

_I think you've mentioned her, the one who bakes for you & improves your musical tastes, right? She sounds like a keeper_.

_It's a fine line between keeper and pain in the ass_.

_*Eats last brownie.* I'm sorry, what was that you said_?

:'(

I know he's kidding, but all I can picture are his sad eyes and frowning mouth. The idea that I've made him unhappy, or even a joking reference to it, makes me instantly compunctious.

_I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that._

_Hey, cut that out. You were teasing; so was I. You're more than welcome to eat all the brownies. I'll simply hound you until you bake them again. _:D_ Plans tonight_?

He's quick to change the subject, an action I'm grateful for. It shows he doesn't want to dwell on the negative, that he wants things to be easier between us. That makes two of us.

_Homework. You_?

_Dinner with my parents_.

I imagine a heavy table in a grand dining room, the four of them sitting around it. Masen's in a dark suit, sitting beside his gorgeous sister. With such good-looking children, I guess that his parents are older versions of Masen and Rosalie, his mother's hair a little shorter than his sister's, his father's a greyer, shorter, tamer version of Masen's reddish mop. I'm sure they're distinguished looking and give off a proud air, based on what Masen's told me.

_The proposition of eating with my mother and father has rendered you speechless. Duly noted. Remind me to never ask you to dinner_.

_No, it hasn't! I was just picturing the 4 of you. I'm sure you're the handsomest family to ever sit down to a meal_.

_Be careful. Flattery will eventually secure your invitation. Rosalie does love her admirers ;)_

_Haha. Tell her I said hello. Enjoy your visit. _

_I've bored you so much that you're dismissing me? :p I'm kidding. I probably should get back to them before I'm missed._

_I wouldn't want to monopolize you :p _

_Is that a euphemism? }:)_

_You wish! Remember not to speak with your mouth full, and it takes more muscles to frown than smile._

_Fallacy. It takes 11 to frown, 12 to smile: zygomaticus major & minor, orbicularis oculi, levator labii superioris, levator anguli oris & risorius, all x 2._

_Ok, Dr. Showoff. I was reminding you to have a good time. You and I are proof that it's never as bad as you think it is._

_Touché. Make sure you do something fun, too. Life shouldn't be all homework._

_Pot calling the kettle black._

_Bye, brat._

_Goodnight, Dr. Showoff. *eats another brownie*_

_You wound me. A man cannot live on inferior baked goods alone. You'd do well to remember that. And I'll do even better if you do. G'nite._

I finish off my assignments and get a jump on my reading list. According to the schedule Angela and I devised, I'm actually ahead of the game. I send her a quick text to share my good news. She quickly replies to tell me she's at a party with Ben. I can almost feel her excitement when she reveals that he finally kissed her. The pang of jealousy I feel is short-lived because I truly am happy for her. I catch her up on Masen's latest ceasefire, as well as some of the epiphanies I've had. She thinks I'm crazy for giving him another chance, let alone for my desire to get involved with him, and I can't blame her. She seen firsthand how much he's hurt me, but she also doesn't know him the way I do. Sometimes you have to accept the good with the bad. And underneath everything, Masen has a lot of good. I just know it.

The sound of my phone vibrating against the wood night table wakes me shortly before 1:00 AM. A smile is on my face before I even see the screen.

_There should be a law limiting the amount of time an adult child is required to spend with a parent, for the protection of both parties._

_That good?_

_I deserve a medal. Whatcha doing?_

_I'm in bed._

_Oh shit! I didn't even look at the time. I was just so stinking glad to be free of him. You were the first person I thought to tell. Sorry :(_

The sad smiley conveys sincerity, compunction, and atonement. His charm is so effortless that he makes me swoon with punctuation marks.

_Don't be. I wouldn't have answered if I didn't want to hear from you._

_Yeah?_

_Yeah :)_

_So no warm, triple chocolate, macadamia nut brownies tonight?_

I'm not sure if he's still craving last night's brownies or using them as an excuse to extend our conversation. Part of me is hoping they're just a segue to inviting himself over.

_Saturday nights are for ice cream sundaes._

_Shouldn't Sundays be for sundaes?_

Warmth spreads through my chest. I know exactly what his face looks like right now: one raised eyebrow and a half a smile.

I'm falling so hard for him.

_Too predictable ;)_

_Then what are Sundays for?_

_You'll have to wait and see._

I expect him to push. He doesn't disappoint.

_Why? Technically, it's Sunday already._

_True, but it's not time for dessert yet. _

_You just want me to text you again._

I do. I so, so do.

_Guilty. And you want me to want you to text me again. _

_That's crazy talk. You must be exhausted, Bella. When you wake up in the morning, you probably won't even remember this conversation. :p_

_Maybe. But I'll still want you to text me. Sweet dreams._

_The sweetest._

* * *

**A/N:** The smile/frown thing is true: (Grrr, I hate that I can't do links the way we used to be able to do them!) tripple-w dot straight dope dot com followed by a forward slash and the following end to the address: columns/read/2489/does-it-take-fewer-muscles-to-smile-than-it-does-to-frown

A thank you to those who are reading, and an even more heartfelt one to those of you who review.


	32. Retire, Expire, Desire

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompts: Retire, expire, desire**

**Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I mull over recipe ideas while I drink my morning coffee. As a child, I often spent Sundays in my Grandma Swan's kitchen. She is the one who taught me how to cook, everything from pairing flavours to kneading bread, and perhaps most importantly, how to use my natural instincts when changing up a recipe. Since I dangled the idea of a Sunday go-to dessert in front of Masen, I have to come up with one in case he calls me on it.

I'm already anticipating his texts today. It's kind of crazy, really, how much I'm looking forward to hearing from him. The flutter of emotions I'm feeling is one of the best parts of falling for someone. There's no denying I'm drawn to him, but it's more than that. I want to save him from himself. I want to tear down the protective barriers he's surrounded himself with, and put them back up around us once I'm inside so he can't get away from me. I want to show him how he makes me feel—the drumming heartbeat, the lightheadedness when he stares at me, how his intensity melts my insides, liquefying my desire. I want to give to him in every way he'll allow.

By mid-morning, I have the perfect idea: homemade donut holes. They're simple, delicious, and totally fun. I'm too excited not to tease Masen with it, and quickly type out a text.

_You're a doctor. Do eggs really expire?_

It isn't long before he replies.

_They haven't taught the chicken egg part of medical school yet. Sorry, I don't have a clue. Why? Good morning, btw. I didn't realize you were an early riser._

His seemingly good mood makes me instantly giddy, so I make use of the innuendo.

_Are you an early riser too? ;) Dessert depends on eggs & I'm too lazy to go to the store to get more._

_*sidestepping the double entendre* How far past their date are they?_

_Us or the eggs? *bats eyelashes innocently* A day or two._

_Ernest Hemingway said: "All things truly wicked start from an innocence." And the eggs are probably okay._

My heart skips a beat. His ability to use quotes in just the right way amazes me. It's as if he has a line on my soul.

_If they aren't, will you resuscitate me?_

I'm sure I have him cornered, but he outsmarts me.

_Sure. I'll dial 9-1-1. :p_

_Who says chivalry is dead? Maybe I should invite Rosalie over for dessert instead. I think she likes me enough to save me._

_We were joking, were we not? If you were ever in danger, I'd do all I could to help you. You must know that._

_It never hurts to be reminded._

_You got angry the last time I reminded you to be safe. :(_

_I didn't want you to see me as weak and fragile._

_Weak? Never! Fragile? Definitely. It's part of being human. Even the strongest person has chinks in his/her armour; if not physical ones, then emotional. _

_So you think I'm emotionally fragile?_

_Not at all! But your heart is so big, and you trust so willingly. Someone could use that against you. I hate the idea of someone hurting you like that._

His words are too deliberate to be about just me. He's giving me a clue about his past, whether it's intentional or not.

_Someone used your trust against you_?

I expect a joke or a subject change, anything but what I get.

_Yes._

_That's why you have trouble trusting, why you keep everyone out?_

_Weren't we talking about eggs? Plus, I think you mentioned a dessert invitation._

His lack of answer is an affirmative. He's only given me a little bit of information, but it tells me a lot about him.

_I did mention dessert. Can I get Rosalie's number?_

_NO! _

_You had an invitation on Friday. Someone else deserves a turn._

_I didn't get my turn._

I imagine the whine in his tone, smiling to myself. This man is serious about sweets, and I can't help teasing him a little further.

_But you didn't ask for a rain check._

_Beginner's mistake. It would be mean to hold it against me. I promise I'll remember next time._

_You're assuming there will be a next time. :p I'll consider your request._

_You're the one who's going to have to live with me if I don't get my sugar fix. Thirty minutes in an enclosed space might change your mind._

Monday feels like a hundred years from now. I wonder if it's the same for him.

_You know I love a challenge._

_Be prepared for pouting and whimpering, followed by begging and tears._

_That's quite a vision._

_You don't know the half of it. I have my ways._

_I'll bet you do._

The afternoon gets away from me—too much daydreaming and a long phone call with my dad. He details his honeymoon trip with Sue, not the relationship parts, thank God, but the sights they saw. I tell him about school and Angie. When he asks how things are going with the rideshare program, I stretch the truth and avoid giving most of the details. I'd rather be sure about Masen before I share my feelings for him, even though my dad would probably be happy to hear that I'm falling for someone.

I send Masen a text asking him what he's up to. He doesn't respond. I type out an invitation to dessert three different times but never send it. If he's free, he'll get back to me, and if he gets back to me, I'll invite him.

My patience has dwindled by dinner, and disappointment begins to taunt me. Instead of accepting it, I decide to make donuts anyways. I multitask, mixing the dough while studying. It's no wonder I'm covered in flour five minutes later. Though my optimistic attitude is struggling to stay intact, I make the best of the situation by stripping out of my jeans and dashing down to the basement to run a load of laundry.

I spend the next few hours dancing around my kitchen, memorizing facts for a test while the donuts fry. It's a fun way to pass the time since I can't fit many donut holes into the deep fryer at one time, and it prevents me from dwelling, a stepping stone to sulking that will only lead to a pity party, something I'm desperate to avoid. It's my own fault that I'm feeling this way. I knew better than to have expectations.

In between batches, I run downstairs to put the laundry in the dryer, managing to forget the fabric softener in my apartment. I rush back up to get it, praying no one steals the dryer while I'm gone. By the time I return, I'm a hot, sweaty mess, and Masen is standing in my living room.

"Cute pjs." His tone is irritated, at odds with the way his eyes rake over my exposed skin.

I smile in spite of his irascibility because I'm happy to see him. There's no point in focusing on his anger. It won't get me what I want. Instead, I choose my words carefully, using innuendo to subtly convey what I want from him.

"Do you like them? I had to retire my jeans; an unfortunate kitchen accident. I needed de-flouring."

* * *

**A/N**: _"All things truly wicked start from an innocence." ~ _Ernest Hemingway, _A Moveable Feast_, chapter 17.

I wanted to take a moment to address an anonymous complaint left on the last chapter that echoes one from a few chapters ago. This is a writing exercise based on prompts, and as such, some meandering is to be expected. If you feel the pace of ITPS is too slow, perhaps this story is not for you.

Thank you to everyone supporting the story.


	33. Charm

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Charm**

**Audio-Visual Challenge—Imagined Image: (http) (colon) / / w w w dot fictionistaworkshop dot com /wp-content / uploads / 2012 / 08 / torn-letter dot jpg  
**

**View the image and write what comes to you.**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

I'm relieved when he smirks. I'll take smugness over irritation any day.

"Deflowering?" he asks.

"Yes, I spilled flour all over my last pair of clean jeans. Thus the cute pjs; everything else is in the wash. I was just downstairs putting my laundry in the dryer."

"Do you think it's wise to walk around your apartment building wearing… that?" He points at my sleep shorts and tank top, motioning awkwardly between the two as though he can't decide which item is more offensive. He may be ticked off that I left my apartment wearing this outfit, but he certainly isn't put off by my choice of apparel. If only he could speak what his eyes are saying.

"Uh-oh, you caught me! I was trying to attract desperate men in the laundry room."

He ignores my sarcasm.

"And another thing. Why the hell did you leave your apartment door unlocked? Anyone could have come in."

"My outfit is only good for luring unsuspecting men away from their dirty clothing. I have to make sure they can get into my apartment."

"That's not funny, Bella, even if you are joking. Leaving your apartment open is dangerous."

"It's not my fault. It's not like I have a place to put a key in this outfit." I sweep a hand down my body to entice him to look at me again. It's an easy victory.

"Bella..."

He makes my name sound like a complaint. I want it to sound like yearning.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at the paper in his hand.

"I was leaving you a note, since you weren't here."

"You wrote me a note?"

I snatch the paper from his fingers as he tries to slide it into his pocket. He grabs at my hand trying to take it back. I spin out of his reach, and read it.

_I don't know what the hell's going on. Your door's unlocked, and you're nowhere to be found. That's not even remotely safe. In fact, it's kind of reckless. You'd better be okay because I'm kind of pissed at you right now. _

My mind deciphers his good intentions—the concern, the alarm, even the caring in his message—but they're wrapped up in so much unneeded anxiety that his words feel condescending.

I take him by the hand and drag him to the bathroom. He watches while I rip his note to shreds and drop the pieces into the toilet, a look of pure confusion on his face. By the time I pull him back through the apartment and out into the hallway, he's scowling at me. I drop his hand and cross back over the threshold.

"It's okay to be angry with me. Just don't be bossy about it. Let's try this again, shall we?"

I make a show of stepping back, pushing the door almost closed and re-opening it.

"Masen! What a surprise to see you at my door."

"Bella."

"Ugh! It's a name, not a warning. You sound like my father."

"Well, I don't think he'd be very happy about finding your door unlocked either."

"Less parent, more friend." I feel bad for sounding so flippant, but he's lost perspective.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm not mad."

"Would you speak to Rosalie this way?" I ask, certain she'd never put up with his domineering attitude.

"No, but she's Emmett's responsibility, not mine."

"Don't get me wrong. I like that you're concerned about my welfare, but last I checked, I wasn't your responsibility."

He huffs and runs a hand through his hair, seeming more exasperated than angry now.

"You are when you're in my car."

His shoulders visibly relax because he knows he has a point. I won't argue with the validity his statement—I don't want to argue at all—but I will call his bluff.

"We're not in your car. We're in my apartment, and you showed up on my doorstep unannounced. Why did you come, Masen?"

"Dessert."

He smiles like a Cheshire cat.

"Liar," I whisper.

He frowns. "I thought we sort of made plans."

"Tentative plans, maybe, but I never issued an official invitation. I was waiting to hear back from you. Why are you here, Masen?" I rest my hip against the door, letting it support my weight.

"To see how you're doing, I guess."

"Close, but no cigar."

"Why does it matter?" he asks, the childish innocence in his voice a result of his inherent charm. It's exactly the trait I want from him, just in a more straightforward way.

"Because you matter to me. If you've come for something, do it honestly. Don't leave me guessing about your motivation. It just isn't gentlemanly."

He looks at the ground. The tips of his ears are pink as he toes the worn carpeting between us.

"I wanted to see you."

* * *

**A/N:** He actually found a way to admit he wanted to see her. It's a Thanksgiving miracle! (I'm from Canada. We celebrated Thanksgiving this past Monday.) This chapter became something else than what it began as when I sat down to write it. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I'm trying not to be sidetracked by it. The message is there: he's interested, and that's all that matters.

I injured my back on Sunday, so this week has been kind of painful. Your support on the last chapter was definitely a bright spot, so thank you to everyone who took the time to leave a few kinds words. It was greatly appreciated.

I'd love to hear what you think.


	34. Succumb

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Succumb**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

He doesn't need to tell me. I understand how hard it is for him to admit he wanted to see me.

To show my appreciation, and make sure he doesn't feel exposed and alone, I say, "I wanted to see you, too. Would you like to come in?"

I step aside, intentionally leaving very little room. Our bodies touch as he brushes by, lending me that familiar surge of energy.

He sashays into the living room and gracefully lowers himself to the couch. I follow, about to sit down when he says, "I apologize for showing up empty-handed. I was thinking about going out for coffee but obviously that's impossible since you're in..." His eyes travel up and down my body. "...the middle of laundry."

The way he's looking at me makes my legs feel like Jell-O. I can't resist the urge to tease him as I take a seat.

"You could go home and change into your pajamas. Then maybe you wouldn't be so bothered by mine."

He grins, looking so pleased with himself that I know he's got a witty retort up his sleeve.

"What makes you think my pajamas would be any more appropriate than yours?"

I picture Masen lying naked in bed, his bare chest exposed, a white sheet tangled carelessly around his lower half. I honestly can't think of a more befitting way for him to sleep.

"I like inappropriate."

"Of course you do." He laughs and adds, "Sometimes, I wonder whether you realize the double meaning in the things that come out of your mouth. The better I get to know you, the more I'm certain that every word is intentional."

"Would it upset you if it was?"

He gives me a wry smile. "I'm learning to roll with the punches."

"I just don't see the point of being anything but honest, you know?"

He leans back into the couch, draping his arm along the back. "I think you're the most truthful person I've ever met. At the very least, you're the frankest. It's refreshing, really. I'm so tired of liars."

It's another clue about his past, relating to the betrayal of his trust, I'm guessing. No one likes liars, but we've all been subject to them in some form or another. I wonder why he's at his limit.

"You're not so good with the honesty thing," I say sheepishly. He's not exactly untruthful, but he's far from straightforward.

He snickers quietly and meets my gaze. His eyes are so self-assured. "Honesty isn't my problem; it's knowing whom to trust."

"So you don't trust me?"

He pales. His struggle to find the right words plays out across his features. Finally, he says, "I'm trying."

I don't understand his body language: tense shoulders, hands balled into fists, a blank mask securely fixed on his face. Then I realize he's braced for rejection. _What has this poor man been through_?

"That's all I can ask." Asking more would be setting us both up for failure.

For a moment, his expression gives me a glimpse of the innocent he once was, childlike wonder mixed with faith and peace. It's the greatest gift he's ever given me. He quickly slips back into his flirty self though, complete with my favourite lopsided grin.

"Can we have dessert now? The smell of whatever you've made is killing me. Will you stop at nothing to manipulate me?"

"How does manipulation occur when the allegedly manipulated party is not present?" I ask.

"Clearly you underestimate your talents."

I snort. "Clearly. Who knew all it took was some sugar and fat to make you succumb?"

"Sugar."

I raise an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"You had me at sugar," he tells me, smug and unapologetic.

I walk into the kitchen, shaking my head, with Masen right on my heels. As I pull the platter out from its hiding spot beside the fridge, his mouth falls open.

"So you're a sugar slut?" I'm giggling as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

His eyes flash to mine, alight with amusement.

"Did you just call me a slut?"

"Well, you called me sugar first."

"I did not!"

A rosy colour creeps over his cheeks as we stare at each other. Rather than offer an explanation for his blush, he laughs, warm and hearty. The sound takes up residence in a vacant corner of my heart. Slowly but surely, the pieces of himself that he's sharing are filling the hollow spots inside me, as though he were made to complement me. I wasn't even aware the emptiness existed until he came into my life.

"I kind of like the endearment. It's old-fashioned and romantic," I say.

"It's a perfect nickname for you."

I feign nonchalance. Inside, my heart thumps wildly.

"Because I'm sweet and irresistible?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of you feeding my sweet tooth, but that works, too."

He winks, and it's my turn to go red.

I make coffee while Masen digs into the donut holes.

"Holy shit, they're still warm. So good." He moans appreciatively.

My back is to him, thank God. Masen doesn't see me close my eyes and shiver in response to the noise he makes.

I imagine him flat on his back and me astride his hips, both of us naked. My arm is outstretched, teasing him with the sticky treat by holding it just out of his reach. He grasps my hips, shifting my body forward, stretching and straining for the offering. It takes everything in me to resist his strength, not so inadvertently grinding against him as I slide backwards. The images are so real that I press my thighs together looking for friction that isn't there.

"A penny for your thoughts," he whispers.

He's so close to me that his body heat seeps through the cotton I'm wearing, calescent against my bare skin. It's an effort not to slide back and rest against him.

His arm curls around me to take two mugs out of the cupboard.

I polish my reverie, but give him the truth.

"I was just thinking about how worked up you'd be if I teased you by keeping the donuts from you."

Turning to face him, he doesn't move back like I expect he will.

"You wouldn't do that, would you?" He's equal parts horrified and innocent, adorable in his put-on.

"Only if I could make it worth your while... and mine."

"I bet you have an idea how to do just that." His voice is low and husky, coaxing my lust in dangerous ways.

I can't tell who's moving, but the distance between us is closing.

"I do." My teeth worry my bottom lip as I nod, caught up in his nearness and the sparks between us. "But you'd have to be in those inappropriate pajamas you mentioned earlier."

My hands grip the edge of the countertop behind me. I'm pushing up onto my toes before I've given myself permission to move, rising up slowly with the hope that he'll meet me in the middle. There's a stage whisper in my head telling me to cease and desist. 'It's too soon, too much, too risky,' the voice warns. But it feels like an eternity and not enough and worth the gamble. I'm no longer in this alone like I was a few days ago. He wouldn't be here, so near that we're sharing breaths, if he didn't want more.

I'm stretched as tall as I'm able, unsteady, enkindled by a sea of green flames. I either pull him to me or wait.

I'm not feeling very patient.

My fingers move instinctively, hooking the hem of his t-shirt just enough to affect his balance. If he's trying to pull away, he'll fall back, but the inertia moves him forward and our lips meet.

* * *

**A/N:** My apologies for the delay. Thank you for your patience and support.

Finally a kiss :) Yay! I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	35. Lethargic

**Disclaimer**: _Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

**Word Prompt: Lethargic**

**Not beta'd.**

* * *

My universe shrinks when I feel his mouth press against mine. It's just him and me and the warm, welcoming softness of our connection.

I haven't been this close to anyone in a long time, and the last time I was, the chemistry was dim and pale compared to the technicoloured attraction I feel for Masen. His nearness is overpowering in the most pleasant way. Broad shoulders and a defined chest, he's bigger than I'd realized now that our bodies are lined up, his almost curled around mine. It makes me feel protected and desired, and he isn't even touching me.

Our kisses are innocent—tender, slow brushes that explore and test the newness. I get the distinct sense he's holding back. His intensity is palpable, charging the air around us.

All too soon he's pulling away and staring at me with what looks like fear. If I had to guess, I'd say he's freaking out. He doesn't speak and I don't push. I gaze back at him with reassurance, allowing him the opportunity to gather his thoughts and hopefully calm down.

"Bella, I..."

The hint of regret in his tone is like the twist of a knife, even though he seems to have thought better of whatever he'd planned to say.

Then he's closing the distance again.

One, two, three kisses, all more insistent. His intensity is slipping through cracks in his control. I give back everything I'm feeling, mirroring his ardour. My hands rest on his waist. I want to pull him closer, press against him, wrap my arms around his neck, but I won't until I know we're on the same page. A war is raging inside his head, even as his body is mutinying.

A loud buzzing jolts us out of our bubble. He steps back, running a hand through his hair and staring expectantly.

"The dryer... I set the stove timer so I wouldn't forget."

"I'll go get your stuff for you." The words tumble out of his mouth quickly, almost nervously.

"Thanks, but I can do it," I say. "Make yourself at home and I'll be right back."

As I step around him, his hand touches my forearm to stop me.

"Let me."

There's a quiet insistence in his voice that matches the pleading in his eyes. The kiss wasn't planned so maybe he needs a second to collect himself. It's the least I can do for him. I just hope he's not feeling vulnerable or uneasy about what happened. It wouldn't be unlike him to overthink the situation.

"Are you sure? I don't mind doing it."

He smiles, but it seems forced. "I'm sure."

I give him the benefit of the doubt and return his smile. After a quick explanation about where to find the laundry room, he walks out the door with an empty basket.

I plop down on the couch, feeling almost lethargic. There's nothing like a kiss from a hot guy to turn you into a limp noodle. Replaying our lip-lock is almost as good as the first time around, leaving me tingling in all the same places. The potential between us is so much bigger than I've ever experienced before. It's like an energy that echoes between us, energizing and enlivening. The sense of belonging it fills me with is almost dangerous, making me feel like I can do no wrong, that I'll always be forgiven. I know it isn't real. I can do plenty to screw things up, and forgiveness is never a guarantee, but I can't overlook the completeness that floods my system when he's touching me.

Masen is gone almost fifteen minutes. Even accounting for my building's exceedingly slow elevator, it's longer than expected. With a soft knock, he walks in with a solemn look on his face. He puts the basket down on the couch and speaks staring at his shoes.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"I'm glad you did."

He scowls at me, brow furrowed and mouth turned down, clearly displeased with my response.

"Bella, I can't do this."

"Do what?" I ask, taking a step towards him. "Hang out with me? Retrieve my laundry? Kiss me?"

He points back and forth between us.

"I don't want this."

The emphasis in his voice is like a slap in the face.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Every thought in my head screams 'bullshit.' He may not want to validate what's happening between us, but that doesn't mean it's not happening.

He glares at me, waiting for me to challenge him, but I don't want to egg him on or make him defensive. The situation is volatile enough as it is.

After an awkward pause, he says, "I can't… I just can't do this with you… or anyone, for that matter. I don't want you to think it's you, because it's not. It's one hundred fucking percent me."

"Okay." I nod again, looking into his eyes as I inch a little closer to him.

"You're great, Bella. You're… It's just that… well, I… fuck!"

Faster than I can blink, he's kissing me again, hands gently cupping my face. How can he hold me so preciously and not want me? How can his lips be tender and giving if I'm not significant to him in some way? How can he kiss me again, knowing it could break my heart, if he didn't want to protect it in some manner?

It takes everything in me to keep from unleashing my enthusiasm on him. Overwhelming him is a real possibility, plus I can't ignore the contradiction in his words and actions. I think we're both a little bewildered, albeit for different reasons. I'm afraid to lose our emotional connection, and he's afraid to commit to it.

He grunts when I don't respond with the same fervour. His fingers drop away from my cheeks to grasp my hips. Though he can't pull me any closer, he tries, insistently tugging me against his body. His muscles bunch beneath my hands, further hinting at his frustration. I hate the guilt it stirs in me. Upsetting him was never my goal.

I give him more, starting with a gentle slip of my tongue. My lack of resistance is welcomed by a groan and a quiet sigh. The sounds leave me smouldering. It's so hard to be patient, and before long, I wrap my arms around his neck and throw caution to the wind.

His hold on me, the way he kisses me—he's like a man possessed. I hope he understands how happy I am to surrender to him.

Minutes pass. Everything around me seems muted and blurred. Time is defined by the sweep of his lips, the press of his fingers, and the thumping of his heart. I'm overrun by heat and sensation and wanting, physically aching with raw need for him. He's already pushed my tank top up to touch my skin. I decide to take it a step further and begin to remove it.

His hands still mine. He pulls back but not away, and rests his forehead against mine. His chest heaves for breath.

"I can't." He forces the words out between pants, almost as though they're painful. For a moment, I'm paralysed with fear, then he speaks again. "Holy shit, I can't… what are you doing to me?"

I realize his eyes aren't open. He's just muttering to himself, not rejecting me. I kiss his lips chastely, followed by the tip of his nose. It's a more appropriate response than any words I can come up with.

His arms wrap around me, squeezing.

"I've never…"

He's trembling.

"Me either," I say. I don't want him to worry about articulating what he's feeling. I'm not sure I could.

He looks into my eyes, seriousness piercing, evaporating the lusty fog surrounding us.

"We need to talk, Bella."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to all the readers!

I took the time to answer reviews from the last chapter. It's been way too long since I got to talk to you guys. I hope you know how much your support means to me. I couldn't ask for better readers. If I missed anyone, please let me know.

So what did you think of Masen's response? Was it what you thought it would be? And what do you think the next chapter holds? I'd love to hear your thoughts.


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